


The Sickening

by MadameGiry25



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Diary/Journal, F/M, Horror, Mystery, Sequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:24:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 55,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadameGiry25/pseuds/MadameGiry25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London recovers from the grips of a raging cholera epidemic. A man washes up on the banks of the Thames, dead under mysterious conditions. Bouts of sickness claim their prey, and a wealthy family must cope with tragedies and insanity. Amongst it all, Sherlock Holmes must sort out the tangle of threads that obscure the true purpose of these seemingly unconnected events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stitching

There was a point when I would never have taken up a pen in this manner. It has long been the duty and pleasure of my friend Watson to record our adventures, as he so loves to call them. I have long disapproved of his tendency to embellish the plain, hard facts and to weave a tale of wonder where there should simply be facts. However, you are no doubt aware the fact that I am no stranger to the writing up of my own cases. In the case of the Blanched Soldier, so aptly named by my good friend Watson, I admitted to having the realization that one must present a case in such a way as may interest the reader.

In the case of this particular adventure, however, I must admit to not caring if readers find my tale to be of interest.

It has come to my attention that certain members of the public (who shall remain unnamed for the time being, though the observant reader will know exactly to whom I refer) have been publishing false accounts of the past few months in more than one prominent newspaper. This is unacceptable and I have thus decided that it is my duty to inform the public of the true circumstances behind the death of Martha Hudson, the fire at the Tower, and the disappearance of John Watson.

This case is complex and has the potential of becoming tedious if I record the facts from memory. Therefore, I shall be brief in my own commentary and compile other sources in order to present the most accurate account within my power.

Naturally, much to the dismay of his faithful readers, the commentary of John Watson will not appear with the exception of diary accounts that I now make public with his express permission. The reason for this permission will become apparent in time. In addition to these diary entries, I will also include drafts that were composed, as Watson had begun to write up this case before his premature departure.

I shall begin my tale by calling to mind a series of events that will likely be fresh in the reader's mind: the great cholera epidemic, which ended two years previous to the publishing of this account in the year 1895.

The common reader will be unaware of the true villain behind the deliberate spreading of the disease. Suffice it to say that the epidemic was triggered at the hand of the Napoleon of crime, Professor James Moriarty. Not directly, naturally. But it was his doing that sponsored the contagion, if you will. Together with Colonel Sebastian Moran, they set out to secure my attention.

At this point of my story, my friend Watson would surely accuse me of self importance and inform me that the reader would call me vain. But if the reader would care to stretch his mind so far as to read Watson's compilation of this case, he would discover this to be undeniably true. And this simple fact became a great deal more apparent as time when on.

I must crave the reader's indulgence now, before I get to the true narrative. It is my intention to report the facts of this story as they occurred, without any hint of sentiment. But I fear that my own sadness will give the entire tale a hint of sorrow. And for that, I humbly apologize.

As I write these words, my attention now turns to numerous diary pages that litter the table on which my page rests. The crisp, practiced handwriting of Martha Hudson stands out, though the pages are spattered with an unhealthy combination of cooking grease, numerous batters, as well as blood. The scrawl of the accomplished writer John Watson sings proudly from pages with ragged edges and torn accounts.

In addition to these private accounts of sentiment, I am now possessed of a great many letters composed specifically for this project. These letters have been composed by the inspectors frequenting Scotland Yard and I am indebted to them for their assistance.

Any other accounts will be written by myself or other trustworthy eyewitnesses.

And now, I can see no point more fit to begin this tale than that which was decided upon by Watson himself. Therefore, I leave the reader in his capable hands.

* * *

_**The following is the beginning of an account of the case composed by Dr. John H. Watson, which was written 3 June 1896.** _

Those living at 221B Baker Street had enjoyed relative calm since the grave affair of the cholera epidemic. My good friend Holmes had dabbled in numerous smaller cases, though seldom did he consider those cases to be worthy of his attention.

I can remember the day on which this particular affair began quite clearly. I had been staying at Baker Street for the better part of a week while my wife was away on holiday visiting her sister in the country. Holmes had only been too glad to allow me access to my old room. Immediately after my arrival, he proceeded to regale me with his peculiar habits as though I had never left.

On the day in question, I sat in my preferred armchair by the fire reading the morning paper. It was a quiet, rainy day and the midmorning sun was obscured by the clouds so that it could hardly be seen at all, though the occasional ray attempted desperately to punctuate the cloud before it was swallowed up by the rain.

Holmes had gone out early that morning before I had risen from my bed. The reason for this early excursion was unknown to me, but I didn't particularly worry. It was not at all unusual for him to disappear without warning when he was on a case. The nature of this particular case was that of petty blackmail, a case that I would surely have thought was beneath Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Perhaps there was something else that I was unaware of.

In any case, I was interrupted from my reading as Holmes banged open the door to the sitting room and entered with a terrific flourish of one arm before collapsing against the back of an armchair.

"I say, Holmes!" I cried, getting up from my chair and going over to make certain that he was all right. "What's going on?"

Holmes cleared his throat and shook his head, blinking several times before he straightened up again and, with as much dignity as he could muster, walked around the chair and sat down within it. "I'm quite all right, Watson."

"You don't look all right, old thing," I scolded, taking in the blood that appeared to have drenched the pale grey sleeve of his overcoat. "What on earth have you been up to?"

"I suppose that it might comfort you to know that I have sealed my blackmail case." He grimaced as I gently pulled his arm from his sleeve so to examine any injury that he had managed to obtain.

"And why should that comfort me, pray tell?" I asked, inspecting a long gash in his arm. "Well, it doesn't look too deep, but I really do feel that we should stitch it."

As I bustled about, readying my equipment for the task, Holmes watched me with a cunning look in his eye. "You're not even going to ask me what happened, Watson?"

"I am all too aware of the fact that you will tell me what has occurred if and when you want me to know and certainly not before," I said with a shrug.

"Quite so, Watson."

Having gathered my supplies and sterilized my needle, I carefully took his arm and set it on the table. "Now hold still so that I can clean it."

"You will recall that a Mrs. Bridget O'Sullivan asked me to recover a certain letter that she had…misplaced for fear that it would further fall into the wrong hands?"

"I do seem to recall something of that nature."

"If only she had come to me sooner," he sighed, shifting his weight and ignoring my annoyed glance as his injured arm moved in consequence. "I might have avoided the unpleasant scene that it took to recover the letter in question."

"In other words, you failed to take something into account." Having finished cleaning the wound, I proceeded to thread my needle.

"As you say, Watson. The good lady failed to provide me with the rather important information that would have better alerted me to the identity of the thief a great deal sooner. Thus avoiding …this." He gestured to the gash. "But in the end, I did recover the letter."

"And where is it now?" I asked, carefully beginning to stitch the skin together.

"It is in the pocket of my overcoat, which you so unceremoniously threw over the back of your desk chair. Would you kindly take better care of it in the future?" The look on his face scolded me.

However, well accustomed as I am to the shortness of my companion when he was wounded, I didn't take the scolding too seriously. "Would you like me to retrieve it for you? The letter, I mean."

"There is no need," said Holmes with a waft of his good arm. "Tis irrelevant for the time being. I shall return it to Mrs. O'Sullivan at her leisure and the matter will be closed."

"Would you care explaining how you managed to slice your arm open in this manner?" I asked, carefully securing another stitch in the skin.

Holmes gave a dramatic sigh and shrugged his shoulders.

"You know, you really are acting quite childish, Holmes," I chided. "You're not yourself at all. What _has_ come over you?"

"I am preoccupied with another matter, my dear Watson. This case has proven to be more of a distraction than I had anticipated and it displeases me that I will now be at a physical disadvantage."

"That arm will heal up before long," said I. "You're certainly no stranger to physical injury."

"Certainly not, Watson," said Holmes. "You yourself know that better than most." He sighed again, looking as though he was resisting the urge to pull his injured arm from my grasp. "I knew that I would find the thief in the public house around the corner. He frequents there. The Irregulars have told me as much. What I did not expect was that someone had alerted him to my plan to recover the letter. It should have been so simple. And yet, when I entered the pub from the side entrance, I was met with a group of armed ruffians who promptly attacked me. It was most unusual. I fought them off and retrieved the letter, of course, but I was attacked from behind and the man had a rather large dagger."

"Good gracious, Holmes," I said. Having completed the sewing, I carefully tied off the end of the thread. "I thought you said that this was a simple case of blackmail."

"And so it should have been," said Holmes. "There was more to the case than met the eye. If all had gone to plan, those ruffians should never have been present."

"Did you catch the thief?"

"Why, naturally, Watson. He was taken into custody by the police and the matter is now closed. Mrs. O'Sullivan should be quite relieved."

I allowed Holmes to take his arm back after carefully bandaging the wound. "Now try not to strain yourself too much and burst the stitches."

Holmes placed his good hand on the bandage and held the injured arm close against his body. He shook his head and glanced up at the clock. "Mrs. Hudson!" he cried out, his voice booming through the house. "Mrs. Hudson!"

She appeared at the door a moment later, looking slightly cross. The expression melted into concern at the sight of the bloodied water I'd used to clean the injury and the bandage on his arm. "Yes, Mr. Holmes."

"Hot water, if you please," he said smartly. "And I should require a spot of breakfast if it be convenient."

Mrs. Hudson glanced over at me and I could only offer a smile. Then she looked back at Holmes. "Of course, Mr. Holmes."

Once she'd gone, he leaned back in the chair and contemplated the bandage for a long moment. "I think that I shall retire for the time being. It is pointless to consider my other case for I am weary from loss of blood. I shall wash, eat, and then sleep. I shan't be needing you for anything so you may want to go out. I fear that my company will be nonexistent for the remainder of the day."

I nodded, well used to this behavior. "Then I shall see you later, Holmes. I'll be wanting another look at that arm, though, just to make sure that you aren't letting it get infected."

"Don't you trust me, Watson?" His eyes gleamed mischievously.

"In matters of your own well being?" I said thoughtfully. "No. I don't."

He chuckled to himself. "Very well. I shall submit myself to your care until you say otherwise."

"Thank you, Holmes."


	2. The Landlady's Woe

I can't imagine how Watson was able to summon enough patience to cope with my moaning when I suffered that injury. Looking back, it wasn't even particularly serious. In reality, my moaning was due to the fact that I was mentally unstable, wishing for the case that didn't seem likely to present itself.

But I had no idea of the case that was about to present itself to me. I only wish that I had been more appreciative of said case at the time.

* * *

_**The following is from the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 6 June 1896** _

Living under the same roof as Mr. Sherlock Holmes is never easy, nor is it ever predictable. But, this morning, living under said roof proved to be one of the most trying experiences of my entire life.

Mr. Holmes and the doctor had gone out for the morning, and they had told me that they didn't know when they would return. I decided to take advantage of their absence in order to do some cleaning in their flat. So, I went upstairs in order to see what I could do in the way of damage control. Naturally, the flat was in a state of shambles, as it always is. Papers strewn about the floor, tables and chairs knocked this way and that. In other words, the usual disorder. I set about to straightening up the furniture, for I knew that Mr. Holmes would be furious if I disturbed his carefully thought out "filing system."

No sooner had I started on this task, than I heard a knock at the front door. Thinking that it was most likely a visitor calling for Mr. Holmes or the doctor, I went downstairs, pulling my apron straight as I went. I opened the door to see two large men. Now, Mr. Holmes has guests of all descriptions on a regular basis, so I thought nothing of their appearance.

"Good morning," I said evenly. "What can I do for you?"

"We need to see Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said the taller of the men. He stood at least a head taller than his companion, certainly two heads taller than me. He was unshaven, and wore dirty clothes that looked as though they belonged in a charity bin. His yellowed teeth poked out from between his lips as he spoke. His accent sounded American. "If you please, marm."

"I'm afraid that Mr. Holmes isn't at home at the moment," I said, drinking in his shabby appearance.

"When do you expect him back, marm?" asked the other man. I thought that it was most peculiar that he sounded American as well. He was dressed in a more gentlemanlike manner than his companion, though his clothing was old fashioned and faded. "It is most urgent that we see him as soon as possible."

I looked him over and pushed a strand of hair away from my face. "I'm afraid that I couldn't say. Mr. Holmes keeps most irregular business hours. Would you care to wait inside?"

The two men exchanged furtive glances. Then, the shabby man spoke. "Yes, please, marm. That would be most welcome."

I stepped aside to allow them entry to the house. "I can't say how long you will have to wait, though."

"Oh, that's not a problem, good lady," said the gentleman-like man. "We'll wait for a time, and then leave if he does not return."

"As you wish," I said, lifting my skirts so as to show them upstairs.

When we reached the top of the stairs, I motioned towards the door to the flat. "Just inside there, gentlemen."

"Thank you, marm," said the shabby man. "Now, could we trouble you for just one more favor?"

"What would that be, sir?"

"Hold still for a moment."

"I'm sorry?" I asked, praying that I had heard him incorrectly.

Next thing I knew, the gentleman had grabbed me from behind, one hand wrapped in a vice around my waist and the other grasping a sweet smelling handkerchief which he clapped over my mouth to stifle my cries. "Just hold still," he said. "We don't want to hurt you." Oh, how I struggled, but a moment later, the scene began to darken and I knew no more.

Some undeterminable time later, I awoke. I was bound to a straight backed chair with thick rope that bit into my wrists and ankles. A piece of cloth was tied between my teeth so that the only sound I could make was a low moaning. The two men who had attacked me were nowhere to be seen. My head ached and tears began to stream down my cheeks, as the full seriousness of my situation dawned on me. The tears slid into my mouth, soaking the gag and making it increasingly difficult to breathe as my nose began to run.

Then, I could hear the front door opening and I tried to cry out, wondering if the sound meant that the two burglars were returning. But no. Now I could hear the voice of Mr. Holmes. And yes, that was the voice of Dr. Watson. I continued to cry, praying that they would hear me.

"It's just a simple case of blackmail, as I told you, Watson," said Mr. Holmes. By his voice, it sounded as though they were coming up the stairs. "Nothing to worry about."

"Well, Mrs. O'Sullivan was very relieved to receive the letter," said the doctor. "Though, I don't see why you waited so long to give it to her."

"It wasn't my choice to wait so long," said Mr. Holmes. "She had no other time in her schedule to receive us."

I heard Dr. Watson scoff as Mr. Holmes banged open the door to the flat. "Watson!" he cried, his eyes widening slightly at the state of the room.

The boys were at my side in an instant, untying the bonds and removing the gag. "Mrs. Hudson, are you all right?" asked the doctor, his eyes full of concern.

All I could do was try desperately to stop the sobs that were wracking my body. "Oh, doctor," I choked out. "Thank goodness you're here."

Mr. Holmes untied the last rope that bound me to the chair and I fell forward into the doctor's arms. He supported me carefully, checking all over my body for any sign of injury.

"Mrs. Hudson, what happened?" asked Mr. Holmes, taking my hand in his and looking me in the eye.

"Holmes, give her a moment. She's obviously distraught," scolded the doctor.

"But we cannot be of assistance if we do not know what happened. The culprit might well be getting away as we speak," said Mr. Holmes. "Don't you wish to catch him so that he can be brought to justice?"

"Of course I do, Holmes," said the doctor. "But she can't tell us anything now, so help me put her to bed. She'll be able to help us when she's calmed down a bit."

Mr. Holmes helped me to my feet, putting one of my arms around his strong shoulders, paying little heed to his injured arm. "Lean on me, Mrs. Hudson," he said gently. "We'll get you downstairs in no time."

Once they had put me to bed and got some tea into me, I was able to explain to them what had happened. Mr. Holmes looked more and more grave as I spoke. When I had finished, he gently put one hand on mine and told me that he would take care of everything and that I mustn't worry. Then he and the doctor left me with strict instructions to rest. I wasn't injured, the doctor told me, but I had had a nasty shock.

I can't imagine why this happened. Knowing Mr. Holmes, anything is possible. I only hope that they are able to catch the men who robbed us. I don't believe that I shall be able to sleep soundly in my bed until they have been caught.

* * *

_**The following is an entry from the private diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 6 June 1896** _

After we had put Mrs. Hudson to bed, Holmes and I hurried up to the flat to assess the damage. In all honesty, it was not nearly as bad as we had feared. According to Holmes, a few insignificant papers were missing. I was resigned to take his word for it, not being at all familiar with the inner workings of Holmes's beloved "filing system." Two volumes of the the commonplace books were missing, namely M and W. Finally, one of the mahogany straight backed chairs that usually sat at our table also appeared to have been taken.

What connected these strange items, I couldn't be certain. All we knew was that the men had not taken anything that had any monetary value, with the possible exception being the chair. But even the chair, though undeniably pleasing to the eye, wasn't really worth very much money.

Holmes, however, seemed unconcerned. He held his bandaged arm close against his chest as his keen eyes swept across the room. "Well, Watson," he said, settling himself in his favorite armchair with a shrug of his shoulders. "We were surprisingly fortunate in this burglary attempt."

"That may be so," I said, seating myself. "But I find it suspicious that they didn't seem to gain anything from this so called attempt. And now they could be charged with holding Mrs. Hudson against her will if they are caught."

"Oh, but they don't matter in the grand scheme of things," said Holmes with a waft of his good arm.

"What do you mean, Holmes?" I asked, though I had a sneaking suspicion as to his meaning.

Holmes shook his head. "It matters not for the time being. What does matter is that Mrs. Hudson is safe and that Scotland Yard does not find out what has occurred."

"Why don't you want the Yard to find out? Surely they could be of some help in catching the thief." I regretted the words as soon as they had left my mouth.

"You know my methods," he said, a touch of annoyance coming over his features. "Answer that question yourself."

I sighed. "Holmes, how about letting me take a look at the injury and then a dose of pain medication."

"I don't need pain medication," said Holmes, attempting to cross his arms, but abandoning the effort when the pain apparently became too great. "I need a case."

My hands gently grasped the injured arm and began unwinding the bandage. "I should think that you were just handed one, Holmes."

"Whatever do you mean, Watson?" he asked, still looking displeased as I worked.

"Well, someone just broke into your flat, tied up your faithful landlady, and stole a number of your personal items." I set the old bandage aside. The white linen was stained with old blood, which had smeared over the skin around the injury. "Will you permit me to clean it?"

Holmes sighed and nodded reluctantly.

Once I had done so with water from the freshly boiled kettle in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, I inspected the wound again. "No sign of inflammation," I said with a satisfied nod. "I think that we'll be ready to remove the stitches soon."

"I am so relieved," he said dryly.

"Will you accept the pain medication?"

He gave a sigh. "If it would please you, Watson."

"It does," I said with a shake of my head. I reached into my bag and pulled out a vial. Wielding my syringe, I drew up some of the liquid and carefully injected it into his arm. "There now."

"I must rest, Watson," he said with a sigh, already sounding drowsy. "Wake me if anything develops."

"Of course, Holmes."

Holmes retreated to his bedroom, leaving me alone by the fireplace. I packed my medical bag, setting it aside. Then, I sat down again, pulling out the day's newspaper, which I had been unable to read at breakfast. My eyes traveled down the page, seeking anything that grabbed my attention.

"Hello," I said softly, raising my eyebrows at one headline in particular as I recalled Mrs. Hudson's description of her attackers:

**American Bandits Terrorize London**


	3. Tarts for All

_**From the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 9 June 1896** _

I have to admit that the experience I endured has been preying on my nerves ever since that terrible day. Against my better judgment, it's made me a bit skittish and nervous. The good doctor and Mr. Holmes have assured me that I am no longer in any danger as long as I am careful when deciding whether or not to let visitors into the flat when they are not home. However, I am still careful to keep the house locked tight, especially after dark. I'd rather not leave anything to chance during times like this.

Mr. Holmes has been in touch with the inspectors at Scotland Yard, informing them of everything that occurred. He promises me that they will sort everything out. Of course, this does little to soothe my worries. The mere fact that Mr. Holmes doesn't seem to be taking an interest in this affair is most troubling. I can only imagine that he has some kind of reasoning behind it.

I have decided to try a new recipe for apricot tarts. They are a favorite of the doctor, and one that I don't make very often, for pastry remains an art form that I have not yet mastered. However, Mrs. Wilson, my grocer's wife, told me that this particular recipe is foolproof. I shall have to wait and see! However, I must remember to stop by the store and purchase granulated sugar and cracked pepper. I seem to have let my supply run low. I am also in need of baking flour and soda.

_**Entry dated 10 June 1896** _

Had just enough sugar to finish the tarts, though not quite enough baking flour. Stopped by Wilson's Grocery and purchased made all of the necessary purchases. I do so hate it when I run low.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 10 June 1896** _

_[Neatly folded between the pages of the diary, I found several sheet of paper that contained an early draft of Watson's writing endeavor at this time. The pages are smudged from his haste in writing so that they are almost illegible. This particular project was very important to him, and had an overbearing influence on the case._

_S.H.]_

I have been hard at work at a revision of a relatively new case that had been requested by my editors. This afternoon, I was putting a few last touches on the draft before sending it to my publisher for approval. Needless to say, Holmes was not impressed with the prospect of a single case receiving so much publicity.

"If you simply wrote the logical facts instead of trying to tell a story, Watson, you would not have to write so quickly that you ruin an entire page," said the wry voice from the other side of the room as I wrote. "Yet another example of why this is so important."

"People don't want to read just logical facts, Holmes," said I, turning in my chair so that I could see the top of his head over the newspaper that he was holding. "They like a good story."

"Then they can read other stories," shrugged Holmes. His pale face glanced up from over the paper. "I do not wish to be portrayed as a literary hero."

"It's the money from the sales of these stories that helps to keep us living in this flat," I felt obliged to point out.

"Ah, but that is certainly true."

"If you wish, I could spend more time at the surgery so that I would be able to make more money for the rent."

Holmes rolled his eyes with an expression of surrender and shook his head. "You put me in the most awkward positions, Watson."

I chuckled, replacing the cap on his bottle of ink and casting my gaze over the new title: The Illustrious Client. My publisher had decided that my previous title was far too presumptuous.

"Didn't you publish this in the past?" asked Holmes, for he had been aware that I was revising this case.

"Of course," I said, gathering up the many loose pages and putting them together in a single stack.

"Then I must confess that I find myself puzzled as to why you are calling it a new case," said Holmes. His newspaper was cast aside as he stretched luxuriously. "It is, after all, a singularly unimportant case."

"My publishers have asked me to rewrite part of it so that they may publish it in a new paper once more."

"You're printing it again?" mused Holmes. "That is singular."

I chose to ignore him. I got up from his chair and stretched muscles that ached from several hours of sitting hunched over the page. As I did so, he happened to glance out of the window and saw that Lestrade was standing outside on the street. "I daresay that we are about to receive another case, Holmes," I remarked.

"We will see," scoffed Holmes. "London is singularly dull when it comes to crime as of late. I can't just accept any case."

"Well I do wish that you would accept this case," said I, moving over to the table to pour myself a cup of tea from the pot that Mrs. Hudson had just brought in a few minutes before. "You are intolerable to live with when you are bored."

"A case that does not stimulate my brain will make me worse than bored," countered Holmes. "But I would not expect you to comprehend such a concept. It is not your fault that your brain is unable to process the same amount of material as my own."

Any retort that I might have been able to offer was cut short by a knock at the front door.

"I do suppose that we should feel honored that Inspector Lestrade has seen fit to grace us with his presence," said Holmes after listening for the pattern of the knocking.

"Do give him a chance, Holmes," I implored him. "It might be a great deal more interesting than you believe."

"I daresay," said Holmes, though he did not look convinced by my words.

There was a knock on the door to our flat, and Holmes called for Mrs. Hudson to enter the room. She did so, bringing the inspector right inside along with her. "Inspector Lestrade to see you, Mr. Holmes," she said.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said Holmes, springing up from his chair and gesturing at the sofa that stood across from his preferred chair. "Do sit down, Inspector. Can I interest you in some tea?"

Lestrade sat in the appointed spot and nodded congenially. "Yes, I think that would be just lovely."

Holmes seized the teapot from where I had left it a few moments before. "Some fresh tea, perhaps, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, holding it out to her so that it tipped precariously in his fingers.

Mrs. Hudson rescued the teapot with one swift movement. Her eyes scolded Holmes so irately that I was forced to contain a chuckle. "Do be careful, Mr. Holmes," she scolded. "I'll not have you spoiling yet another of my teapots."

"Do forgive me, Mrs. Hudson," he said apologetically.

She shook her head, still looking annoyed at him, before she left the room. As the door closed behind her with a click, Holmes turned his attention back to our visitor.

"To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit, Lestrade?" he asked, seating himself in his preferred chair. "You have not been around to Baker Street in quite some time. I assume that some diabolical scheme has been discovered."

I sat down in the chair next to Lestrade and picked up my pipe from the table. I nodded my greeting as I struck a match and lit the pipe. "Afternoon, Lestrade."

"Good afternoon, Doctor," he said in a voice that was falsely cheerful. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes." He paused, seeming to take a moment to collect his thoughts together. "You are correct in assuming that I need your assistance in clearing up a certain matter."

"Dangerous?" asked Holmes. There was no missing the glint that came into his eyes as he spoke.

"Potentially," allowed Lestrade. "Would you be willing to investigate the matter?"

Holmes chuckled at the words. "Now, now, Lestrade," he said. "Surely you know me well enough by now to realize that I will not commit to any case without first hearing the facts."

"Yes, I do know that," said Lestrade dryly. "But I do rather think that you shall be most interested by this case."

"Then, pray continue," said Holmes, closing his eyes and lacing his fingers together.

"A young man was found dead on the banks of the Thames this morning," said Lestrade.

"Where on the Thames?" asked Holmes, a note of impatience coming into his voice.

"On the eastern end of the Plaistow Marshes, in between the Victoria and Royal Albert docks," said Lestrade. He sounded a bit disgruntled at the interruption, though I would have thought that he would be used to that sort of thing by now. "In the abandoned shipyard."

Holmes raised an eyebrow, apparently intrigued by this piece of information. He nodded for Lestrade to continue his story.

"Victim was probably in his late twenties, and rather wealthy, going by the state of his clothes. Hasn't been identified, but that should only be a matter of time."

"How did he die?" I asked, slowly inhaling the smoke from my pipe.

"At first glance, it seems that he drowned," said Lestrade.

"What do you mean 'at first glance'?" I took another draw on my pipe, trying to get a visual of the entire situation.

"I mean, that's what it looked like," said Lestrade. "But when we examined the body further, we discovered something a bit more interesting. It appears that whoever was trying to do him in attempted first to strangle him with his hands, going by the bruises on his neck. But there was too much water in his lungs for the body to have been chucked into the Thames after death."

"So, presumably, the murderer tried to strangle him but it wasn't working for whatever reason?" I said slowly. "So he threw the body into the Thames to let the river finish him off?"

"It seems ridiculous," admitted Lestrade. "But that's what it looks like."

"Did the handprints on his neck look like they belonged to a man?" I asked.

"Yes, they certainly did," said Lestrade grimly. "What I can't understand is why they would throw him into the river before he was dead. It just doesn't make any bloody sense." He turned so that he was now facing Holmes. "That's why I decided to bring this one to your attention, Mr. Holmes. I thought that you would be able to come up with something."

"Is there anything else that you can tell me?" asked Holmes. His eyes opened and he looked the inspector over several times, apparently deep in thought. "Anything about the victim or the crime scene?"

"Well, like I said, the victim hasn't been identified, but we believe that he was very wealthy. He didn't have any form of identification on him. I assume that was removed by the man who killed him."

"What sort of clothes was he wearing?" asked Holmes.

"Very fine," said Lestrade. "The style was quite old, but it had been maintained most impressively, though the finer details were lost in the river."

"Then he was wearing clothes," said Holmes quietly, more to himself than to either of us. "That's most interesting."

"How's that?" asked Lestrade.

Holmes appeared to snap out of whatever mental process he had been absorbed in and he shrugged. "Never mind," he said. "Just thinking aloud. Do continue."

"I have a man coming in to potentially identify the body tomorrow afternoon," said Lestrade. "I'd like it if you were there for the process. You and the doctor."

"Well, I don't see why not," said Holmes, putting on a rather cheerful tone of voice. "This could be of great interest."

"Then you'll come?" Lestrade sounded undeniably relieved.

"If Dr. Watson raises no objections?"

I shook my head, offering Lestrade a smile. "I should be delighted."

"Then it is settled," said Holmes, getting up from his seat and opening the door of the flat to admit Mrs. Hudson even before she had knocked. "You will stay for some tea, of course, and we shall not talk about this case until the identification of the body tomorrow."

"Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes," said Lestrade.

Holmes set the tea tray down on the table, and picked up the teapot, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's glance. "You must be careful, Mr. Holmes," she said, obviously not trusting him to do so. "Or I shall be forced to not allow you to use my china without supervision."

I made my way over to the tea tray, also not trusting Holmes to pour for me. I caught sight of a particular treat laid out on a plate and a smile came over my features. "Why, Mrs. Hudson!" I cried out. "You made apricot tarts!"

She returned the smile, looking very pleased at my reaction. "I thought that you would enjoy them, Doctor."

"I do indeed," said I, sweeping her up in a hug. "You're too good to us, my dear Mrs. Hudson."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: The observant reader will probably have noticed that I'm mixing up the canon order of cases, as The Final Problem was set in 1891, and Ghost Map took place in 1895 with Moriarty as a character and Illustrious Client was not set till many years after this. Just a note to say that this is indeed deliberate!


	4. Fighting Fit

_After a great deal of research, I have reached the conclusion that the following is the most exact account of the incident that took place on the banks of the Thames. The detailed account of the affair penned by Dr. Watson no longer exists; therefore I must put forth this interpretation account by Inspector Hopkins of Scotland Yard. Any misconceptions will be dealt with accordingly._

_I have taken the liberty of removing several superfluous sections from this report, as they had no bearing on the case. I trust that the reader will appreciate that they need not suffer through the grievances of a minor inspector of Scotland Yard._

_S.H._

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector S. Hopkins. Entry dated 11 June 1896** _

I found myself perplexed as to why Lestrade chose to call upon Sherlock Holmes for this particular case. While it is certainly a sorry affair, it seems as though it is a rather modest case in nature. Unquestionably, it is not too difficult a case for the likes of two inspectors of Scotland Yard. However, Lestrade was most insistent that we recruit the mind of Mr. Holmes, and I was forced to agree, as it was I who called Lestrade into my case in the first place.

Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson arrived at the morgue this morning with the intention of witnessing the identification. The good doctor appeared most interested in the proceedings, much to the apparent annoyance of his companion. Lestrade had assured me that Mr. Holmes was willing to take on the case, but I found myself doubting this as I observed his conduct at the mortuary. He seemed very uninterested, and appeared to be annoyed when the doctor spoke quietly to him. I can only imagine what went through their heads; I cast a look toward Lestrade, who simply shrugged his shoulders.

We found ourselves waiting for a long while before the man who was to identify the body arrived. Dr. Watson spent the time examining the body with the permission of myself and Lestrade. Mr. Holmes appeared to glance over at the body every so often with an expression of extreme indifference.

Finally, there was a knock at the door and a constable entered, bearing an elderly gentleman in his wake. He offered me a nod before exiting the room, closing the door firmly behind him. The old gentleman stared at the body, now covered in a white sheet so that no part of him was visible. The man was short and stooped, walking with a cane that was covered in filth. His clothing suggested that he was a beggar, a fact that confused me.

"Do come in, Mr. Toulson," said Lestrade, being the only one to offer speech as the rest of us only stared at the man's peculiar appearance. "It was very good of you to come on such short notice."

Mr. Toulson nodded, making his way slowly but deliberately across the room toward the body on the table. "It is no matter," he said with a wave of his hand. I was struck by how deep his voice sounded; the fact that the speech was punctured by many cracks made it stand out as quite peculiar. "I am here to do my duty."

Lestrade cleared his throat and gestured toward the body. "If you wouldn't mind, sir," he said, his fingers taking hold of the sheet covering the body. The man nodded and Lestrade pulled the sheet away from the face so that it was visible to everyone.

The face was mottled and blue, the lines slurred and pained. Such a curious mixture of strangulation and drowning. It was not something that I came across very often in my career as an inspector. I found myself staring at it with a mixture of curiosity and revulsion, despite the fact that I had already viewed the body when it had been found.

Mr. Toulson stared at the face for a long moment before he spoke. "Yes," he said softly, the word sounding faintly reminiscent of something like the voice of a cracked toad. "That's him."

"Are you certain, sir?" I asked, not wanting to be outdone on my own case. "There is no doubt in your mind?"

"None at all," said the man, not even bothering to look up at me. "That is most certainly my missing ward."

Lestrade allowed the sheet to fall back onto the face of the dead man. He looked from face to face, his expression grim. "Thank you for your time, sir," he said. "If we could get a statement, we will need to ask you a few questions about your ward."

"Certainly, sir."

* * *

_The inspector's description of the face of the dead man was extremely accurate. Ironically, it was the face of Mr. Toulson that he failed to notice, and this face was more significant than that of a dead man._

_Mr. Toulson stared upon the body for a long time before making the identification, that much Hopkins perceived. But the facial expression was most curious. It suggested that Mr. Toulson was more interested than appalled; this was not a typical identification._

_Another fact that Hopkins failed to notice was the fact that Dr. Watson appeared to be suffering from a strong headache throughout the identification process. But then, he would not witness the significance of this fact, and I doubt that the incident was ever related to him._

_S.H._

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 11 June 1896.** _

We have learned from Mr. Toulson that the dead man is a Mr. Clay Anderson, twenty-two years of age and the dependent of the identifier. He had been reported missing by Mrs. Toulson about two days before the body had been discovered. There had been no trace of him and no apparent reason why anyone should want him dead.

And yet, he was found brutally murdered, strangled and drowned. What a case for the likes of Sherlock Holmes.

I knew that Hopkins was very much against my consulting the detective; he had experienced a great deal of irritation by requesting the help my mind. He may try to employ the methods of a Scotland Yard inspector, but often has a great deal of difficulty doing so. This is not the first time that I have been invited to help in one of his cases, nor is it the first time that Sherlock Holmes has stepped in.

In any case, Sherlock Holmes remained quite blasé toward the case until he read the statement obtained by the constable. We had returned to my office after the identification in order to better examine the statement. Dr. Watson had appeared interested in the case from the start, but I have to admit that I experienced a feeling of relief when the consulting detective looked as though he had taken notice. It was not difficult to see that his curiosity had finally been aroused.

"What do you make of it, Mr. Holmes?" I asked, gesturing toward the piece of paper that now sat on my desk.

He sat in silence, his eyes traveling up and down the page without reading the words contained within. "I find it to be of most singular interest," he mused, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "Don't you?"

"Well, it does seem most unusual," I allowed, sitting back in my chair.

"I do wonder if you have found yourself able to observe a particularly interesting aspect of this case."

"How do you mean?" I asked with a sigh, waiting for the triumphant revelation. I often found it quite tiresome to work with this man; there were times when his ability to solve perplexing cases remained the only thing that stopped me from smacking him upside the face with a blotter.

"Mr. and Mrs. Toulson are not wealthy people. That much was obvious from the start," said Holmes. "Yet, they have a young man from a very wealthy family as their dependent. I would be most interested to learn more about the circumstances that led to this arrangement."

"Perhaps an estrangement from his family?" suggested Dr. Watson, reaching a hand up to hold the left side of his head in a seemingly casual gesture. I thought that I detected a slight wince on his part.

Holmes shook his head, his eyes still trained on the statement lying on my desk. "No, I do not believe that is the case."

"Why not?" I asked, begrudgingly confused. "That was the case with the lad who visited you during the cholera case. Why should this be any different?"

"Because Mr. Toulson did not strike me as a man who would be very sympathetic to that kind of plot. Whether or not his wife is remains to be seen. But I highly doubt that his wife would be able to convince him to take on such a ward."

I frowned, considering the fact. "Perhaps. But where does that leave us?"

He did not answer immediately, but stared at me as though astonished that I did not have the faintest idea what he was talking about. His gaze shifted to his friend, who was now grasping at his head with his eyes closed. I saw concern flicker in the eyes of the detective. "I daresay that we will find out in time," he said with a shrug. He was on his feet, looking at Dr. Watson, who appeared to be trying to cover up for whatever distress he was experiencing.

"Dr. Watson?" I asked, standing to get a better look at him. "Are you feeling well?"

His eyes opened and he appeared to be suddenly recovered. "Quite well, thank you, Lestrade," he said, pulling his jacket straight and offering me a smile. "I just had a slight headache. It appears to have gone now."

He slowly got to his feet, glancing over at Holmes, who was staring doubtfully at him. He smiled again as he reached a standing position, as though trying to reassure us of his condition. His mouth opened to speak, but any words were cut off as his eyes closed and he collapsed onto the floor in front of me.

I gave a cry of shock as I saw him fall, hurrying around my desk to his side. Holmes reached the doctor before I was able to, quickly gathering his friend in his arms and touching a hand to his throat.

"Is he all right, Holmes?" I asked with a feeling of shock. "Shall I call for an ambulance?"

Before he could answer, it appeared that Watson was coming around. His eyes opened and he touched a hand to where I perceived he had struck his head when he had fallen. He grimaced, taking his hand away; I could see that it was stained red with blood, though not as much as I might have anticipated. He looked at me with an expression of confusion as though unable to remember what had just occurred. Then, his eyes cleared and he nodded softly.

"What happened, Doctor?" I asked, breathing the same sigh of relief that left the lungs of Sherlock Holmes. "Are you all right?"

He nodded, the confusion leaving his face. "Yes, yes," he murmured, struggling into a sitting position, his hands pushing against Holmes for support. "I'm all right. Just a dizzy spell."

Holmes didn't look convinced. "Watson, are you quite sure? You gave us quite a scare."

"Yes," he said, his voice sounding much stronger. "Could I have a glass of water?"

I moved over to pour a glass from the pitcher that always rested on my desk. I handed him the glass, watching him carefully to make sure that he could get it to his lips. Satisfied that he seemed well enough, I moved back to give him a moment to regain his composure. Holmes helped him to his feet after he had finished, gently pushing him into his chair.

"I'm quite well now," said the doctor, apparently embarrassed by what had transpired. "A bit of water and I'm right as rain."

Holmes stared at him for a moment, his arms folded and his gaze searching. He looked as though he wanted to speak, but the doctor cut him off. "Don't fret, Holmes. I've just been tired as of late, and I suppose that the strain was too much for me."

I have to admit that I was not convinced by this explanation, and I could see that Holmes didn't believe him either. But, I decided that it would be best to let the matter stand for now. Whatever was wrong, the doctor did not appear willing to talk about it at the moment. "I suggest that you take him back to Baker Street, Holmes," I said with a nod to the pale man in the chair. "A good meal and some sleep will do him good."

"Yes, I'm sure," said Holmes. "Watson, do you think that you will be alright to stand and walk, or would you like my assistance?"

Dr. Watson did not appear quite sure, so he carefully stood under his own power, testing his ability to walk. He nodded. "I think that I will be alright, Holmes," he said, a bit shakily. "But I may require your assistance if it proves too much for me."

Holmes nodded. "Of course, my dear fellow." He turned to face me. "I will take the case. Good day to you, Inspector."

"Good day, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

_Watson's sudden illness did seem inconsequential at the time. A result of overworking, for I knew that he had been extremely busy at his surgery as of late. Even then, however, I knew that something was amiss._

_Looking back, I cannot believe that I missed the warning signs for what was to come._


	5. Live Coals

 

_**A rough copy of the case as penned by Dr. John H. Watson and found in his personal diary. Dated 14 June 1896** _

_[I was obliged to recopy many of the passages that are found in this account. The draft was jotted down while the good doctor was ill in his bed and was written with a tremendously unstable and shaking hand, making the words difficult to read._

_S.H.]_

Upon returning to Baker Street, I found Holmes to be in an unusually irate mood. The source of this mood was undetermined, but his incessant pacing and quiet growls only served to make my throbbing headache grow steadily worse.

I knew that Holmes was cross with me for not telling him of my debility illness before my untimely collapse in the office of Inspector Lestrade. Prior to my collapse, I had been suffering from intense nausea and an extremely painful headache for the better part of a day or so. Initially, I had dismissed the symptoms as a physical evidence of the fact that I was rundown and exhausted from many hours at the surgery.

Once we had returned to Baker Street, I felt obliged to lie down on my bed until it was time for supper. Holmes did not offer any comment, but left me to it. I must admit that I found his lack of concern to be a bit strange after the way that he had behaved in Lestrade's office. In any case, I had hoped that his withdrawal would allow me several hours of uninterrupted sleep, which I found myself badly in need of.

Mrs. Hudson brought me another of her wonderful tarts and a cup of tea in an effort to make me more comfortable. Her concern was quite touching, and I managed to eat the entire tart, despite the complaints of my system. Although it was not without a considerable amount of coaxing on the part of my landlady. I appreciated her determination, although I was unable to tell her, for I began to feel so unwell ill that I knew I must sleep.

However, although my respite was uninterrupted by my friend, I found myself plagued by hostile dreams. Several times I awoke drenched in sweat and fighting off a bout of nausea before coaxing myself asleep once more. I knew that the illness was more serious tha…

[ _At this point, the narrative trails off, for Watson evidentially was unable to continue. As he has said, I had felt that it was best to leave him to it, for I was uncertain what the best course to take would be in this circumstance. I regret my decision._

_While the good doctor was fighting his illness, I absorbed myself in the case at hand; I found it the most effective way to take my mind off of my worry. As we would soon discover, that mistake would be our undoing._

_S.H_ ]

* * *

_**From the personal records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Dated 15 June 1896.** _

I have received word from Baker Street regarding the condition of Dr. Watson. In the two days since his untimely collapse in my office, the health of the doctor has declined severely. Mrs. Hudson has been kind enough to inform me that he was taken to hospital early this morning, only a few hours ago. Neither the cause nor nature of the disease is known. His condition was so unstable that Holmes has accompanied him to hospital and will remain there with him as long as is necessary. Mrs. Hudson has promised to keep me informed.

Apparently, the doctor awoke with severe abdominal pain and having a violent fit; a crash as he knocked over his bedside lamp was what alerted Holmes to the situation. One thing led to another, and he was rushed to hospital, leaving Mrs. Hudson frantic in his wake.

I must admit that I am nervous uneasy at this sudden, violent illness; I am not convinced that it is pure chance. However, until the hospital staff can get a better idea of the situation, there is nothing that can be done. We must wait. And I am certain that I speak for us all when I say that the report cannot come soon enough to suit anyone.

I plan to render a visit to Baker Street as soon as possible. I am worried about Mrs. Hudson; I know that she is very distraught at this sudden change in the doctor's health, particularly so soon after the recent cholera epidemic.

Annie has offered to prepare a meal for Mrs. Hudson if I will stop at home to retrieve it before visiting Baker Street; she is firm about the fact that Mrs. Hudson will not want to cook for herself, particularly with both of her lodgers at hospital. I know that she will appreciate the gesture, and I worry that she will not eat without a bit of coaxing.

I was forced to leave Hopkins alone in his office when I received the call; we had been discussing the case at great length. I know that he was extremely annoyed at me, but it couldn't be helped. I had to leave the room quickly, and that was that. No doubt I'll be made to listen to his complaints in the morning.

* * *

_**From the private diary of Annie M. Lestrade. Entry dated 15 Jun 1896.** _

I've felt so helpless since Geoff told me what had happened at Baker Street. All I can think about was that dear Mrs. Hudson alone in the house while the men were off at hospital. She must be going mad with worry, and I can't blame her.

I wanted to go and see her myself, but the children are ill, and I daren't leave them alone. Geoff can take time away from the Yard, so I decided to send him along with a meal for Mrs. Hudson while I stayed with the little ones. Mrs. Hudson is such a kind and motherly woman, and I so want to help her. This is one way that I can, and I hope that I can go along to see her as soon as I can. The children should be much better in the next few days and I can send them along to school.

There's not a day goes by that I don't thank my lucky stars for the health of my family, and this sudden illness of the doctor has only made that feeling stronger. At least my children are only ill with a minor head cold. They will be all right. I shudder to think what might have happened if they'd become ill during that horrible epidemic. I know that it is all over and done with, but I can't help but recall what happened. Geoff frightened me when he said that the real killer was still greatly at large. There's nothing that I can do about it. I am so afraid that it will happen again. I'm afraid that I will not be able to protect my family. I feel so silly thinking like this, but I cannot help it. The city might have forgotten the terror, but I haven't.

Every day I wonder if Geoff will be able to come home and tell me that the entire business has been cleared up. I know that it's unlikely, but it doesn't stop me from hoping. I know that Geoff is as concerned as I am, though he doesn't show it. I can see it in the way that he looks at me, and at our children. And it breaks my heart.

I must fly now, for Geoff has come for Mrs. Hudson's basket of food. I must put these feelings away, and smile for him. He has the more difficult job at this moment in time. I can put on a strong smile for him. It is what he needs. With any luck, he'll have some information about the doctor when he returns this evening.

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector S. Hopkins. Entry dated 15 June 1896** _

It would appear that Inspector Lestrade is out of the office for the rest of the day at the very least. He received a phone call that seemed to shock him into running off, leaving me with the case files just as we seemed to be getting somewhere with this murder business. I will have to rely on my own wits now, since it appears that the great Sherlock Holmes has vanished as well. I have no idea what is going on, but I find it most inconvenient.

Lestrade and I had managed to trace Mr. Clay Anderson's address before his leave-taking. It was not the same address given to us by Mr. Toulson, but we feel confident that it is accurate and might even be able to help us sort something out. I plan to visit it myself tomorrow, alone if Lestrade hasn't returned to work.

After the identification, Lestrade was the first person to interview old Toulson. He gave me the basic facts before I went in there. I think that he had hoped that it would be enough information to keep me from interviewing the man. But Lestrade isn't always the best at this kind of interrogation. There were so many obvious things that the man wasn't telling Lestrade, and I'll bet just about anything that he had no idea. I believe that he is too trusting.

I went into the interrogation room to speak with Toulson after Lestrade left with Mr. Holmes and the doctor. He seemed surprisingly content and he didn't seem to be particularly worried or upset about the fact that he'd just identified the body of his ward. I didn't like that attitude.

So, I questioned him. He looked like he was trying not to laugh at me. Naturally, I knew that he was hiding something, so I pushed on. But he wasn't telling me anything that he hadn't told Lestrade. I asked him dozens of questions, but he wouldn't confess any other knowledge. It was very maddening. Finally, I realized that there was nothing to do but to let him go. Of course, I told him that we would be in contact with him again, should he decide to tell us what he's keeping from us. He just gave a little smile, and he nodded. He said that he would be willing to help us out in any way that he could. A bloody lie. If he meant it, he'd have already told me.

Why do I get the feeling that he's told Lestrade more than Lestrade actually told me? This is _my_ case.

Mr. Holmes and Lestrade seem to be pretty bent on the fact that the cause of death is damn more significant than it should be. Lestrade kept bringing it up before he left, and I was getting quite annoyed. It seems to me that the actual way that he died is insignificant. The killer tried to do him in one way and it didn't work, so he had to try something else. It happened in a mad fit. And you'd think that would be the end of it. Apparently not. I wish that they'd just let up. I'll prove to them that it didn't happen the way that they think.

Assuming that Lestrade will be returning tomorrow, I'm making arrangements for my trip to the dead man's address. I've given up talking to the old man witness. Any important information has been given. And he's bloody annoying to talk to. There's nothing more to be found there. He didn't even know where his ward lived. No, there's nothing else. Maybe this address will help us actually get somewhere if we can find any clues and talk to the neighbors. It'll be much better than just trying to stay around here and twiddling my thumbs while Lestrade debates the importance of the cause of death. Ridiculous.

* * *

_**The following is a rough account of the hospitalization of Dr. John H. Watson, as penned by one of the doctors. It was intended to be a personal account, but I was fortunate enough to obtain it, for it gives an accurate account of treatment.** _

A man was rushed into one of my rooms this evening. He appeared to be strongly built, of a stature either average or slightly above average, with a thick, strong neck and a small moustache*. My nurses informed me that he was suffering from an unknown ailment; therefore I took it upon myself to diagnose his illness.

When I saw the man, I could see that his condition was serious. He appeared to be having some kind of seizure-like fit, his form alternating between violent flails and clamping up with arms wrapped around his midsection, suggesting abdominal pain. Cramps, perhaps. So much saliva could be seen around his mouth that he appeared to be foaming rabidly. I suspected that he had lost control over muscles that allowed him to contain the saliva.

I moved over to his side, nodding to the nurses to hold him back so that I could administer emergency treatment. They tried to restrain him, but he proved to be too strong for them, and they were thrown back. It was then that I noticed the man who had accompanied him.

"What do you need?" he asked, his voice hoarse. I could see that he was very upset at the circumstances. Still, he appeared to be stronger than my nurses, and I needed that strength more than I needed skill if the seizures did continue.

"I need to establish an airway. He can't breathe. I need you to hold him down without harming him while I do this."

He nodded, coming forward and gripping the arms of the sick man. The seizures appeared to be lessening; he did not resist the other man, but I worried that they would start up again after I administered treatment. Once the man was as still as we could make him, I proceeded to free his airway, making certain that he was able to breathe. I checked for his pulse, and was relieved to discover that it was relatively normal; it was fast, certainly, but that was to be expected after the seizures. It was already beginning to slow to a normal rate.

"Has he vomited since the fit began?" I asked the other man, nodding for him that it was safe to let go of the man's wrists.

"Yes, he has." The answer was short and terse, as his eyes swept up and down the wracked form of the man on the table.

I breathed a sigh of relief. That was a good sign. I was beginning to suspect that this was a case of concentrated nicotine poisoning. Had he not vomited, we would have had to attempt a treatment involving live coals, and I would rather not try it if I didn't have to.

The man on the table was still, and his breathing had returned to normal, although he was unconscious. "There is nothing more to do," I said, grateful that my own breath was coming a bit easier. "We will make certain that his heart rate remains strong, and his body will break down the rest of the poison. He should be out of the woods at this point."

The man appeared to exhale a breath that he had been holding for quite some time. He looked straight at me and nodded. "What poison?" he asked, his tone more curious than concerned.

"This was a classic case of nicotine poisoning. If nicotine is ingested in a concentrated form, it will bring on these symptoms. Your friend was extremely lucky. He appears to be quite resilient. Not many would be able to recover as quickly as he did."

I paused to look at the man, who appeared to stop listening to me. I smiled softly as he sat down next to his friend.

"I will inform your staff of any changes," he said.

"I don't expect any changes at this point," I replied. "If there is anything else that you require, just let us know."

He nodded absently. "I shall."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Taken from The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton
> 
> Note: I honestly couldn't find any information that suggested that doctors would not be aware of nicotine poisoning and treatment for it at this time, so I made an assumption that they would. At this point, this was what needed to happen, so I apologize for any historical inaccuracy. You didn't really want me to kill off the doctor, did you? :D


	6. Unwelcome Residence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of my chapters got mixed up, so this is a repost. Somehow this was listed as Chapter 5 instead of 6 before. Not sure how that happened, but it should be sorted now.

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 17 June 1896.** _

I felt a certain amount of vexation when I became aware of the fact that rain was streaming down the windows of the carriage. The sight and sound of the pattering drops is generally enough to push the pain from a dull ache to a bursting throbbing. I have always experienced pain when the weather changed, but the incident with the nicotine poisoning appears to have crippled the joint quite badly. Of course, that might be simply because I still feel so weak and heady.

As an army doctor, I've treated many cases of nicotine poisoning in the past, and I am well aware of the consequences of the aftermath. The main difference in my case being that most cases of this kind occur when a patient is a heavy smoker. I know that I will still be weak for quite some time; that feeling is one thing but the persistent pain of an old war wound is another.

Somehow, I feel as though Holmes knows that the poisoning is not an accident. I myself do not know how the poison entered my system, for I had not smoked before the incident occurred. In any case, I am almost certain that it has to do with the note that Holmes received this morning:

" _Je savais que tu reviendrais. Regardez-les."_

My French is quite poor, but I do know enough to recognize the fact that he is being told to watch more than one person. I would very nearly bet all of my savings that I am one of those people. I suppose that Mrs. Hudson is at least one other, although I am not certain on that point. I cannot think who else should be watched, if not Mary or perhaps even Lestrade.

Holmes has not spoken about his last encounter with Colonel Moran. To be specific, I refer to the meeting that left him on the floor of Camden House with enough cocaine in his system to sink the Spanish armada. He had told me that he knew that Moran would return with a vengeance. Undoubtedly Professor Moriarty would be at his side when the time came. It's been months since then. I do not know how Moran managed to poison me, but I do not doubt that he was one person who was behind the attack. Perhaps even the men who assaulted Mrs. Hudson and robbed the house… Well, if Moriarty sought to gain the attention of Sherlock Holmes, he has certainly succeeded.

Mary wanted to return to London as soon as she had received word from Mrs. Hudson of my debilitating illness. Holmes had agreed wholeheartedly and had even arranged for her transportation, but, alas, this was not to be. An accident on the line has stalled all trains in her area, and the distance is great that she would not be able to return to London for at least a week. I spoke to her over the telephone this morning, and I assured her that I was feeling much more like myself. She has reluctantly agreed to stay where she is, although the lack of transportation in the area isn't particularly giving her a choice in the matter.

At the moment, we are traveling by carriage to an address provided to us by Lestrade. Apparently, Mr. Toulson gave him the address of the dead man's closest living relatives. I had the impression that Lestrade did not want us to make this journey, but he doesn't seem particularly inclined to stop us. At any rate, Holmes wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to speak with these suspects. He seems keen to put the events of my hospitalization behind us. I must confess that I am ready to do the same.

Holmes asked me if I felt ready to travel, for he knew that I am still quite ill at this point. I assured him that I was indeed ready, and that I was quite looking forward to a chance to learn more about this case. I feel as though there have been too many distractions leading up to this point, what with the attack on Baker Street and my unfortunate incident. If Moran is trying to distract us, it must be a sign that we are making some significant progress on this case, even if we aren't aware of it. Well, I say 'we' but I know that Holmes knows a great deal more than he's telling me. Mind you, there's nothing unusual about that. I'm quite used to being kept in the dark. However, I do feel a bit subdued about this case. There is a weariness that clouds my vision and my mind. I feel as though I've been put out of a race, as though this is not my time.

Holmes has just pulled a second letter out of his pocket of which I knew nothing. Evidently, this is not just an interrogational call on this family. We have also been asked to assist in the solving of a murder that took place yesterday evening. The letter came in this morning's post.

The fact that Holmes ultimately decided to visit the house did surprise me. There is very little information in the letter; it is not so much as signed. I doubt that Holmes would have agreed to go to such a grand manor house as the one that is currently approaching outside the window on such slight information. Naturally, there is something that I do not know about.

I must break off now, for we have arrived at the house. It is certainly a great deal more elaborate than I had anticipated. I wonder what we've gotten ourselves into…

* * *

_Later the same day…_

It appears that the house we are currently visiting is inhabited by the family of the dead man. Oh, now that we are in his family home, I suppose that I must now refer to him by his name, rather than 'the dead man,' for I rather think that it will sound callous in the ears of his kin.

The murder that we have been called to investigate is not the murder of Mr. Clay Anderson as I had originally thought. But I must start at the beginning in order to collect my thoughts upon the matter. This is what I have gathered from speaking to the family.

The current owner of the house is Lady Cecilia Deramore. Her husband was Lord Percival Deramore, who passed away ten years ago. Lady Deramore is the mother of five children, four of which live at home. Two of those children live with their respective spouses. All of the Deramore children were adopted from various families after the Lord and Lady realized that they could not have children shortly after their marriage.

The man known to us as Mr. Clay Anderson is actually Mr. Clay Deramore, which was not a particularly difficult leap. According to his brother Lancelot (affectionately known as Lance to his family), he became estranged from his mother about three years after the death of their father. He left the house with what remained of his inheritance from his father, changed his surname, and moved to London in order to get a fresh start. They had not heard anything from him until they received a call from the police shortly after his body was found. I gathered that there was no love lost with his mother, but there was a marked stain of grief on his brothers and sisters.

The murder that we were employed to investigate was that of one of the daughters of Lady Deramore. Miss Virginia Deramore was found dead in her room yesterday morning with no mark upon her body but cherry red blood around her mouth and nose and skin that was remarkably pink. There is to be an autopsy, but the initial report was death by cyanide poisoning. Judging by the description given to me by Lancelot, I am rather inclined to agree with such a diagnosis.

Our initial interview with Lady Deramore told us very little about the case. She essentially told us a brief amount about the estrangement with Clay Deramore as well as the circumstances surrounding her daughter's death. There wasn't much; according to Lady Deramore, there was no reason that anyone would want her daughter dead, and she wanted us to find out whether or not it was possible that her death was an accident. Holmes looked at her with the faintest amount of disbelief before excusing himself from the room.

I know that Holmes intends to speak with the other three Deramore children: Mr. Lancelot Deramore, Mr. August Deramore, and Miss Lacey Deramore. Out of the progenies, Virginia and August are married, and they live in the home of their mother, though it is evident that this is not without a fair amount of resentment.

It was surprising to all of the children that Clay managed to leave the house with his inheritance from his father. Lady Deramore keeps the money close to her chest, which is essentially why the other children have not moved into their own homes. They aren't equipped to earn money of their own, so they stay with their mother. I feel like I must withhold judgment, but I found that I was more than slightly disgusted at the actions of the mother.

Holmes wants to stay in the house to learn more about this case, and I was surprised to discover that Lady Deramore has agreed. When I asked Holmes whether or not he had thought this through, he simply said that he had taken the liberty of packing my suitcase before we had left London. He will telephone Mrs. Hudson directly and ask her to put the case on the train; I am to inform her if there is anything else that I would like her to include in the case before she sends it.

I am annoyed that he has done this. I have no interest in staying at this house, but I can see that I don't have much choice in the matter. Something is wrong in this house, though not on the surface. On the surface, this family appears to have a rocky relationship but nothing out of the ordinary. At the very least, nothing that should result in death by cyanide.

Well, I suppose that I can see Holmes' point. I just wish that we did not have to stay here. Holmes wishes to be in the thick of it and that's all there is to it. I simply do not feel strong enough to resist. I will be telling Mrs. Hudson to include a few items from my medical bag if I am to remain here at the house.

That is all for now. It is getting late and I must prepare for dinner. Something tells me that this will be more of an ordeal than I am in the mood for.

* * *

_**The following is a letter addressed to Colonel Moran, and dated 17 June 1896.** _

[ _In the case of the reader wondering how this letter was obtained, I must plead my own silence. Suffice it to say that I was not made aware of the existence of this letter until many weeks after it was sent. The delivery went quite badly astray once it was delivered into the hands of the recipient._

 _S.H_.]

My dear Colonel,

You always were far too spontaneous and foolish. Your mind is no match for that of Sherlock Holmes. In any case, I am relieved that you decided to purchase this flat. With a bit of luck, you will have purchased the vanity that I requested you buy as well. Even if you cannot think for yourself, you follow orders like a soldier, a fact that I must applaud you on.

And now, I imagine that you are ranting and railing about the flat that I have selected for you. You wish to know what this is all for. I shall tell you all in good time.

For now, it is important that you understand the overall goal behind this campaign. Every soldier must be able to see a large goal, I realize this.

Our goal is the ruin of Sherlock Holmes

Please note that I truly mean 'ruin' and not 'death' as you might imagine. Even though I have no doubt that you wish the great Sherlock Holmes dead, I must assure you that my way will be a much better revenge.

Why is this the case? Why do we wish his ruin rather than his death? A soldier like you may have difficulty understanding that death is not the end, especially in a case like this. Even if his body lies cold and still in a coffin in the ground, Sherlock Holmes will live on as a martyr in the minds of the population of London. Thanks to the memoires and writings of his companion Dr. John Watson. The writing up of the cases has made Mr. Sherlock Holmes a hero in the best tradition of cheap fiction as far as the general population is concerned.

Is that what you want, Colonel? Do you wish to make Sherlock Holmes a martyr for everything that he stands for? I cannot believe that this is so, no matter what you say. So surely, you understand the necessary aspect of secrecy and discretion. If you follow my orders, nothing will go wrong. Sherlock Holmes will be none the wiser to his ultimate downfall. If he dies, so much the better. But not before we have finished .

You will discover the full extent of my plan in time for I do not trust you to remain to what I have decided upon. You are impulsive and headstrong. Therefore, it is not wise for me to give you my plan in full at the moment. I will give you time to decide if you wish to accept this mission. On the evening of the 23rd, a messenger boy will arrive at this flat to give you my next letter. If you do not wish to obey my orders, send him away. If you are willing to do as I say, then I beg of you to please accept the letter and trust that I have a better knowledge of this affair that you do.

Only accept my second letter if you are willing to carry out the orders to the fullest extent. My people will know if you deviate, and they will inform me. I trust that you do not wish for me to find it necessary to take action.

Think it over. You have until the 23rd.

I remain, Colonel, faithfully yours,

Professor James Moriarty.


	7. Malcontent

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 17 June 1896. Late evening.** _

Well, I was certainly justified in my prediction that dinner would be an ordeal. I rather think that such dinner with an old English family is a tribulation for a private detective, not the consulting detective and his biographer. Nevertheless, Holmes appears to have thoroughly enjoyed this unique look at the woes of the Deramores. Really, for a man of his character, I find the eagerness to snap up their secrets more than slightly annoying.

But, perhaps, it is just my exhaustion that clouds my thoughts. The rain has continued, making my leg ache and my mood just as stormy as the weather. I was never much good at family politics, and I count myself remarkably fortunate that my awkwardness did not trip me up.

I knew as soon as we sat down to eat that I would never be able to keep all of the Deramores straight in my head; at least their adoptive status ensures that none of them look quite alike. I must make a note to remember to speak to a staff member to find the full story of the children. Something tells me that there is a lot more to this family than meets the eye.

Lady Deramore sat at the head of the table, looking severe in a burgundy dress that only served to articulate how pale, grey, and shriveled she was, despite copious amounts of rouge and lipstick. On one side of the table sat Lancelot, Lacey, and August, all keeping their gazes trained on their plates as though they daren't look around them for fear of being reprimanded. Holmes and I sat on the other side, accompanied by August and his wife Mary, as well as the late Virginia's husband John. There was a marked difference in the demeanor of Lady Deramore's children and their respective spouses; it was obvious that her children feared her, even now that they are grown. Quite frankly, it made for a rather depressingly inept start to the meal.

I had to resist the urge to pull at my collar as the meal began, for the atmosphere was absolutely stifling. It was so much so that I began to suspect that Lady Deramore intended for it to be so, and that it was not unusual. The feeling of fear had nothing to do with the fact that there were visitors at the table; it was the family's social norm. What a dismal thought.

The food, I noted, was rather simple and plain, not at all what you might expect from a seemingly wealthy family of this caliber. A single potato for everyone, a course that involved a meat that Lady Deramore insisted was chicken (although I rather suspected it was haddock), bits of fruit and cheese, a simple cake for dessert, one cup of coffee apiece, though it was not offered to Lady Deramore's own children. Holmes barely touched his food, but that was only to be expected. Lady Deramore seemed almost amused at his lack of appetite and did not show any offence. I, on the other hand, found it difficult to eat, for I was drained and in too much pain. Unfortunately, my reputation apparently does not allow me to decline any course of the meal without it resulting in a severe look and near tongue lashing from the lady of the house. Needless to say, I was obliged to bite my own tongue and eat, cursing Holmes for bringing me here all the while.

The conversation was absolutely no distraction from the pain, as it was almost nonexistent. By the time we were halfway through the meal, I understood just how ridiculous this entire situation really was. I saw no point in Lady Deramore being so controlling that she would not allow speech at her table, for it was obvious that the children knew better than to start a conversation. Even their spouses didn't attempt any speech. No doubt they had learned in the past that it simply wasn't worth it. I suppose that I found Lady Deramore's controlling nature to be absolutely ludicrous. Her children are all grown; even her youngest is in her early twenties. But there was nothing that we could do to dispel the mood.

* * *

After the meal, we retired to the sitting room. If the meal was poorly constructed, the splendor of the sitting room more than made up for it; apparently the Lady Deramore preferred to spend her money on decorating her house rather than food for her family. The walls were of a salmon color, covered with paintings of all sizes and colors. Dark colored drapes lined the windows, although I couldn't quite appreciate their effect. The room was furnished, though only slightly, as chairs and end tables lined the walls, leaving a large space in the middle as if for dancing.

I didn't expect the conversation to begin, but begin it did. Only at Lady Deramore's blessing, mind. In the beginning, the talk was mild, conversing about the weather and the rising prices of God knows what. Not a single mention of their deceased brother and sister. I didn't want to seem insensitive, but it seemed like they might have been a little more distressed at the deaths. Two horrid deaths and not an eyelash batted. Incredible.

Except for little Lacey. Well, I say little, but she's actually quite a beautiful young woman. She sat alone in the corner of the room on an armchair, her dark hair covering the magazine that she was reading. Every so often she would look up and shake her pale head at her siblings; she appeared to have inherited her complexion from her mother, although her face had a warm, youthful glow that her mother had lost many years ago. Even Lacey knew better than to challenge the status quo.

But I found myself impatient at their behavior. I couldn't just sit back and discuss the weather, not if I was expected to be civil. I made my way across the room, leaning heavily on the cane that I had brought, and gestured at the chair across from her, offering her a smile. "May I?"

"Oh, please," she said, looking surprised and slightly taken aback by my request.

I settled myself in the chair, exhaling softly in relief as I was able to take the weight off of the throbbing leg. "It was very good of your mother to allow us to stay here," I said by way of starting a conversation. "I must say that I hadn't expected such a privilege."

"It's no trouble," she said in a light, airy voice that seemed suppressed. "I'm sure that Mother wanted your companion to be able to clear up this business quickly. This was the best way to do so. That's all."

"Nevertheless, we do appreciate it. Mr. Holmes is much more efficient when he's on location, so to speak."

Her face remained perfectly straight as she nodded. "I take it that you are quite experienced in matters of this kind, Dr. Watson. Murder, I mean."

"Oh, I don't know if I'd go so far as to say that," I said with a waft of my hand, trying to expel memories of bodies so as not to unnerve this girl who appeared quite breakable. "But Mr. Holmes is certainly very qualified for this case." I paused to clear my throat, glancing around the room. "I take it that you were very close to your sister?"

She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. "Not particularly. I loved my sister, but we were never close. She was so different than I, and I never really had very much in common. Aside from our backgrounds, of course. Being adopted really does give you something to cry about and you can easily cry together. But she was always so dramatic all the time. I do miss her and I'm sorry that her death was so horrid, but I am a bit relieved in some ways. At least she won't have to deal with our mother any longer."

I tried not to stare at her as I processed this information. "What was she like? Your sister?"

"She was always very into histrionics, always carrying on about one thing or another. She was very close to our father, and she tended to get extremely weepy and anxious whenever he was away. She was the last of us to be adopted, you see, so she had the least amount of time with him. I thought that she would waste away when he died, but she didn't. She was still very upset, even now. All these years later."

Her simple tone was beginning to unnerve me; I had expected the weepiness from this girl, not her sister. Lacey seemed rather indifferent to her family's situation, and I wasn't quite sure how I felt about that.

"Did she seem particularly upset before she died?" I asked, trying to get a better feel for the persona of the dead girl. "Any more so than usual?"

Lacey considered for a moment. "No more than usual. She was always upset about one thing or another. It used to drive Mother mad, but there you are. I wonder if Mother is relieved that she's gone. Yes, I think that she is, rather. I know that I look forward to not having to try to cope with her hysterics. I don't cope well with drama, you see."

"I see," I said with a shake of my head, unsure how else to respond to her. "But surely you still grieve for your sister."

"Oh, of course we all do. It's only right. I think that Lance misses her more than any of us. You might want to speak with him if you want more information about her character. I know that my judgment is clouded because we never saw eye to eye." Lacey closed the magazine that had been resting on her lap as we had spoken. "I can call him over now, if you'd like. Unless you prefer to talk to him in private. I'm sure that Mother will excuse him from the customary repartee of the evening either way."

"I would rather like to speak to him in private if it could be arranged," I said, looking over at the gathering of the rest of the family members across the room. "It's customary to speak to each suspect alone, you understand."

She looked amused at my choice of words. "Am I a suspect then?" she asked, a tiny smile flitting across her equally tiny lips. "I didn't think, although I suppose that I had as good a motive as any since I really didn't like her and that is common knowledge."

"I really don't understand why your sister's death doesn't seem to be affecting you, Miss Deramore," I said, not able to hold the question in any longer. "Do you suppose that you could elaborate for me?"

"Not for you," she said with a shake of her head. "Perhaps for your companion. He is the detective, after all. You're nothing more than a doctor."

The words had a fresh tone to them, but I couldn't help but feel the sting; it was impossible to tell whether or not she meant it to be as insulting as it came across. "I see," I said again, really not quite sure what I was supposed to say to this strange girl. "Well, I think that I'll speak to your brother now, if you will excuse me."

"Of course, Dr. Watson," she said, opening the magazine again and beginning to read. "I have every faith in your ability to find out what happened."

And with that, I realized that I had been dismissed. Unfortunately, Lady Deramore had the same thought and took this opportunity to send all of us to bed. I expected Holmes to say something in response to this unprecedented order, but he simply obeyed silently and followed the children out of the room. I would have spoken to him then and there if I hadn't felt the need to get to bed as soon as I could, for I was finding it difficult to stand upright for any period of time because of my leg.

Fortunately, Holmes took notice of my pain and gently grabbed ahold of my elbow to help me up the stairs after all of the children and Lady Deramore had passed. "I appreciate your staying here with me more than you realize, Watson," he said, allowing me to put my weight on his body as we began to mount the stairs. "This kind of experience will be just what I need for this case."

"I notice that you are ready and willing to succumb to Lady Deramore's every command. Just as willing as her children." I grimaced as I took another step up.

"And that's where you are only partially correct, and yet more correct than you comprehend. Her children do not have any desire to listen to her commands, and yet they do so because she intimidates them."

"What makes you so certain?"

"Their behavior over dinner. She expects silence, and so she receives it. But not without a certain amount of bitterness. Even the husband and the wife did not show as much bitterness as the adopted children. I believe that Lady Deramore knows of their discontent, and yet she is confident that she will be able to continue to reign over their lives."

"Lacey Deramore is an interesting piece," I commented, feeling a bit of relief as I noticed we were nearly at the top of the stairs. Finally. "Have you spoken to her in any detail yet?"

"Not as comprehensively as you have," said Holmes, shifting so as to better balance the weight on his shoulder. "But I gather than she is not particularly grieved by her sister's death. Even you could have deduced that without talking to her."

I had to grudgingly admit that he was right; all of the children with the possible exception of Lancelot seemed a bit too resigned to their sister's death. "Do you think that they had a hand in her death?"

"It would not surprise me in the least," he said. We reached the top of the stairs and I gratefully transferred my weight to the cane. "There is something very wrong here, and you just happened to hear it firsthand from their little mystic. I feel that they know a great deal more than they are willing to tell us, naturally. All we have to do is take the time to discover exactly what that is. And why they felt the need to call in a consulting detective."

I shook my head wearily. "Such deductions will have to wait until the morning, Holmes."

My words appeared to jar him out of his thoughts. "How thoughtless of me, Watson! Your illness had slipped my mind momentarily and I have allowed you to overwork yourself. I am so sorry, my dear fellow. Go now to your room and we will not speak of this until tomorrow."

"Thank you, Holmes," I said, choosing not to comment on his apparent forgetfulness.

So, I am now alone in the room, for I found myself unable to sleep. But the light from the fire is beginning to die and I must rest my head. I shall set all these thoughts aside until the morning.


	8. Man of a Different Colour

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 18 June 1896.** _

Hopkins has expressed an undeniable amount of… aggravation regarding Holmes and the doctor visiting the house of the late Clay Anderson's family. Or, Clay Deramore, as I suppose that I should say now.

Honestly, I can't stand much more of his moaning. He was the one who had requested that I join him in this case. Did he not realize that I would assist in the case in my own way? I'm beginning to realize just how incompetent he really is; if the chief inspector hadn't insisted that I stay on this case, I would abandon it in a second. He never acted in this way before I called upon Sherlock Holmes. His behavior is becoming amateurish and downright annoying. I do hope that Holmes manages to sort this business out soon; I don't think that I'll be able to take much more of this.

In any case, it's certainly motivating me to work considerably faster than normal. Not content to let Holmes and Watson do all the work on the battlefield, I've been doing some sniffing of my own on the home front. Even when he doesn't know it, Hopkins is becoming a prime bloodhound; point him in the right direction and you never know what he'll turn up. In many ways, I wonder whether the job of an inspector is the right one for him.

While Holmes has been investigating the Deramores, Hopkins and I have been on the trail of the strange Toulson family. I was curious to see just how they came into the game, and so was quite surprised to make a startling discovery about them. The "Toulsons" do not exist anywhere in London under that name. There is no record of them anywhere, and not even the Baker Street Irregulars were able to come up with anything on them.

However, when I gave the supposed Mr. Toulson's description to the boys, they were able to dig up a man who matched. Hopkins and I paid him a visit this afternoon with the full intention of getting some of this story straightened out.

We chose not to comment on his apparent anonymity, at least for the majority of the interview. I had the impression that he had been expecting us. Not only that, but I wondered if the difficulty we had experienced had been deliberate. A test to see if we were capable of finding him. Thank goodness that we appeared to have passed at least that much.

During the initial meeting at the mortuary, he had mentioned a wife. I asked if she was available to speak to as well, for I knew that we would have to question her sooner or later. He said that she was not, and his face suggested confusion. I wasn't entirely sure what to make of that, but decided not to press him. If I hadn't trusted his testimony, I would have thought that he had lied about having a wife. Well, I don't necessarily trust that testimony, but the paperwork involved in proving him wrong would have been a nightmare with so little to go on.

When we asked him to tell us about his ward, the story that he told was warm and touching. A story about a lonely man and his wife who had taken in the estranged boy and given him everything that he needed to be successful. He was a wonderful son to them, and they loved him very dearly. He was never in trouble, and he had no enemies, aside from his family. But they had never set much store by his family anyway. They had known that he had found his home with them and they never wanted him to leave. They saw no earthly reason why he should have been killed; his relationship with his blood relatives wasn't that bad, as far as they had known.

It wasn't difficult to tell that this man wasn't going to cooperate. Whether or not he actually knew something wasn't clear; all that I knew was that he wasn't going to talk out of stubbornness.

After all the time that I had spent chasing this man, I was very annoyed that he remained unwilling to cooperate. But I also wonder if he isn't just being stubborn; it's entirely possible that he simply doesn't know anything. And I'm beginning to lean in that direction, although Hopkins is convinced that he's lying. I don't know…

It seems to me like Mr. Toulson has no reason to lie to us if he wasn't the killer, and I doubt that he is even physically strong enough to do such a deed, especially now that I've gotten a good look at how skinny he is. No meat on his bones to speak of. There is a great deal still to be known at this point in the investigation. I must see what other leads I can discover, though we'll certainly be keeping an eye on this man.

I can only hope that Holmes and Watson will be able to uncover something at the Deramores. They haven't sent me any word since they had arrived, so I have no idea if they are even progressing at all. I'd expect nothing less from Sherlock Holmes. The trail is running cold in London.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Mary Watson. Entry dated 18 June 1896.** _

There is still no sign of a train that will be able to take me back to London. I feel so frustrated at this turn of events; I had no idea that John would get himself into so much trouble while I was away. He says that he's recovering, but I can't stand not being there with him.

I spoke to Mrs. Hudson this morning, and she told me that John had gone to a manor house in the country with Sherlock. Part of me is relieved that he is on a case, for I know that it will help heal his mind to be out with Sherlock. But I also fear that he will overexert himself, for he sounded so poorly when he spoke to me yesterday. He never was very adept at stopping himself when he needs rest and that is what worries me most of all. I do wonder how he managed to cope when he lived with Sherlock on his own; I expect that Mrs. Hudson really did have her hands full with the two of them.

I don't understand how John became ill; it's my understanding that he was poisoned, but the source of the poison is unknown, as is the impending assassin. I worry that he will return to finish the job. At least I know that he is with Sherlock and that Sherlock will certainly be able to put the business to an end.

Mrs. Forrerster has told me not to worry, and that I am welcome to continue staying with her as long as I like. As wonderful as it has been to see her again, I count off the days until I can return to London.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 18 June 1896.** _

Thank goodness that breakfast is a relatively independent affair in this household; I couldn't bear the idea of a repeat of last night's dinner quite so early in the morning.

I haven't seen Holmes at all since I went downstairs to eat, although that was not entirely unexpected. The dining room was empty except for a footman standing at attention next to an impressive spread of breakfast foods. By the looks of things, it hadn't been touched by the rest of the family; how curious that the lady of the house is a firm believer in the philosophy that breakfast is indeed the most important meal of the day.

The footman looked straight ahead of him, unmoving in a way that suggested that he actually wasn't present in the room, as I surveyed the options. I leaned heavily on the cane, more from the lingering exhaustion then from intense pain. What a curious mix of weariness and just enough pain to make it difficult to stand upright. It was certainly not an ideal combination for handling a breakfast at which one was expected to serve himself.

"Do you think that you could assist me in this?" I asked the footman, deciding that I might as well use his services if he would have to stand there anyway. In the end, I really wanted to speak to him about the family; this was as good a conversation starter as any.

He only nodded, stepping forward to take a white china plate from the stack on the edge of the line. The actual process of asking him to add items to my plate seemed a bit awkward to the both of us, but I managed to get enough food to last me awhile and seat myself. As soon as he had placed the plate on the table in front of me, he resumed his motionless position by the food. I noted how his face had not changed once during the entire process.

"How long have you been working here?" I asked nonchalantly, getting together a forkful of egg. I almost didn't expect him to answer, but he blinked in surprise before regaining his composure. This appeared to be the invitation that he had been waiting for.

"I've been here since I was a boy. Started out as the hall boy and worked my way up. I've been here for all of their adoptions, if that's what you mean." His tone was flat and unemotional, but I felt as though he understood a lot more than he was letting on. He certainly seemed more willing to speak than his employers, even when you took his stiffness into account.

"Yes, that was what I was wondering." I took another bite of egg and chewed thoughtfully as he waited for me to press the point; I wondered if the Deramores should be concerned about the fact that he was so ready to speak of them in this manner. After another moment, I decided to ask him the question that his face so obviously wanted. "What's your opinion of the family?"

His arms had been strictly at attention, but now he held them loosely at his side, as though my question had given him permission to become more discrete in body as well as in words.

"They're all a bunch of quacks." His eyes widened at his own words and I wondered if he would clap a hand over his mouth. "Always have been and always will be. Not surprised that one of them cracked and had it in for Miss Ginny."

"So you think that her death was caused by one of the family members?" In this kind of situation, I had found that it was best to remain neutral. I was curious to discover the kind of knowledge that this boy possessed. And he seemed promising after having known the family for so long.

"You wouldn't ask that question if you knew them as well as I do. I've known 'em for years. Every single one of them is capable of murder if they put their mind to it. Or if the mistress put them up to it." The speed of his words had increased and he appeared to be tripping over his own tongue.

"What do you think actually happened? Did Lady Deramore make her children kill their sister?" I wasn't able to keep the tone dispassionate anymore. This family was more damaged than I had dared believe.

"Anything's possible. The way I see it, either Lady Deramore put them up to it or she did it herself."

"Why would she want her daughter dead?"

"Not my place to say. Don't know much about it anyway. Still, she didn't get along with her very well. Maybe it was easier to get her out of the way entirely instead of just disinheriting her. And if her kids got the money that she would have received, that means that everyone benefits."

I shook my head in amazement. "But that still doesn't explain why her siblings would be willing to poison her just because their mother told them to. Surely loyalty and fear only goes so far."

He shrugged as though details of that kind didn't really matter. "I have no idea what she specifically said, but I'm sure that she had something to do with it. Probably didn't kill her with her own hands; she's too lazy to get her hands dirty like that."

I suddenly found it difficult to swallow my breakfast. Thankful that I had opted for a small plateful, I forced another bite of egg down my throat. "That's quite a theory…" I trailed off, waiting for him to say his name.

"Thomas," he said automatically. "My name is Thomas. And I doubt very much that it is a theory. More likely that it's the truth."

I passed a hand through my hair as I set the fork down. It would have to be enough of a breakfast effort. "Thank you very much for your help, Thomas. I don't think that I would have come to that conclusion without your information." And that much was certainly the truth.

He looked rather pleased with himself as he nodded congenially. "Only too happy to help, sir. If you require any other knowledge, please don't hesitate to ask."

"I'll certainly keep that in mind," I said with a smile and a nod. I got to my feet, arranging the cane so that I could stand properly. I gave him another nod before exiting the room.

And now I believe that I can hear Holmes in the next room. I must inform him what's been going on and what the footman said. I have a feeling that he won't have seen this one coming.

* * *

_**The following is a note from a scrap of paper found by myself in the hall of the Deramore house. It is not dated but it is assumed that it was sent on either the 17** _ _**th** _ _**or more likely the 18** _ _**th** _ _**of the month.** _

Lacey,

I think that the detective and his partner are going to be on to us soon if they aren't already. You have to be careful to make sure that they don't ask the right questions. If Mother finds out, we will not live long enough to explain. Please, just be careful. We've come too far to back out now. Don't let anything else happen.

Meet me in my room before supper. I want to know what the doctor was asking you.

-August

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to Mrs. Forrester above is a callback to the first chapter because I've changed the person that Mary was visiting after a canon reminder.


	9. Désagrégation

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 18 June 1896.** _

Thankfully, I found Holmes in the bedroom that had been assigned to him, rather than a room occupied by one of the family members; I would not put it past him to find a way to push his nose into the business of this family. Not that I could really blame him, though, after everything that we've learned about this odd family thus far.

Holmes was seated in an armchair next to the lavish, canopied bed that took up most of the room. I had to make my way around the forest green bedspread that had been left at the end of the bed in order to reach him; I wasn't entirely certain that the spread wasn't alive, when I considered the fact that it was trying to trip me with every step, getting tangled around my cane. He glanced up at me as I nearly tumbled over, finally resorting to sitting on the bed. "Is it really too much to ask that you make your bed when we are guests in this house?" I asked, trying to adjust myself a bit more comfortably on the sheets.

"I've come across a curious happening in this house, Watson," he said, holding up the stack of papers that he had just been reading.

"As have I. One of their footmen, who has been here since he was a child, has told me -"

"No, that's incorrect." Holmes leaned over to the bedside table and spread his papers out thoughtfully.

"What is?" I asked, although I knew full well what he meant.

"He has not been here since he was a child. None of them have. The only ones who have been here for any real length of time are the butler and the cook." Holmes had pulled a small magnifying glass out of a drawer, and was examining the text of his papers.

"Holmes, that isn't yours," I scolded. He looked up at me in faint amusement before delving back into whatever he was looking for. "Then why did the boy downstairs tell me otherwise?"

"I expect that was Thomas. He did strike me as one who tends to tell tales." His tone was slow and methodic as he scanned the page, running a finger across the lines as his glass followed. "The boy came to this house about a month ago, replacing a footman who had been employed here no more than two months. It would appear that the Deramores go through staff at an alarming rate."

I considered this for a moment. "He seemed to be under the impression that Lady Deramore told one of her children to commit the murder of their sister. He said that they would do anything that she told them, now that they've been given proper motivation."

"Did he now," mused Holmes, finally setting the magnifying glass aside and leaning back in his armchair. "And I suppose you find that difficult to believe."

"Well, I don't know what I believe," said I. "All that I know is that we're currently residing in a house of madmen who are apparently incapable of telling the truth, whether or not they are guilty of a crime."

Holmes chuckled, reaching over to gather up his papers and hand them to me. "Then it is lucky for you that I have been doing my own research, incognito, so to speak." He noticed the disapproving look that I aimed his way, and smiled, shaking his head. "I expect that you do not approve of my methods, Watson."

"That depends on what you've done this time around," I said accusingly, taking the papers and beginning to thumb through them. "Holmes, this is in French."

"And I am fairly certain that you learnt the language when you were a schoolboy," said Holmes, lacing his fingers together and looking at me expectantly.

I shook my head at him, looking back at the document, attempting a rough translation in my head. "What am I meant to be looking for?"

He got to his feet, reaching over to comb through the papers for a moment before handing me a sheet and pointing to a specific passage:

_L'attention est impossible, la volonté et le jugement sont presque toujours absents ; c'est aussi bien une pensée en état de désagrégation qu'une personnalité en voie de formation.*_

I squinted at it, rubbing a finger on the bridge of my nose. "Attention is impossible…" I spoke slowly, casting my mind back to my days at university for any assistance possible. "The desire and the judgment are almost always absent... That is the state of mind in a disintegrating personality forming." Reaching the end, I glanced up at Holmes, unsure of what this was supposed to be telling me.

Holmes nodded and took the stack in his hands, shaking his head slightly. "I found this in Lancelot Deramore's bedroom. They were pages of a large book, but the book was falling apart, more pages having fallen out than remained in. I only took those that wouldn't be missed." He avoided my judgmental stare without missing a beat. "These are pages from a book written by Pierre Janet, a student of psychology at the time. The book is called _L'automatisme psychologique_. Among other things, the book refers to the désagrégation theory."

"And you believe that someone in this house…"

"Is a victim of the dissociation condition, yes." He set the pages aside and crossed the room to open his case and remove his beloved pipe.

"Well, couldn't the book have simply been in his room for recreational reading or for his studies?" I asked, pursing my lips slightly.

"Recreational reading? I doubt it very much, Watson. That book had been read to tatters. Far too often for it to be simply a favorite volume, and I cannot see the lady of the house promoting this kind of reading material. No, I would strongly suspect that Mr. Lancelot has come across someone with this condition, or perhaps even he himself has experienced its effects at one time or another." He paused in the action of lighting the pipe to look over at me. "You are knowledgeable about this condition as a medical man, I expect?"

I nodded, shifting on the bed so that I could see him better. "Split personality. Quite often accompanied with amnesia of the second personality so that the victim doesn't know he has the condition."

"Quite so." Holmes lit the pipe and inhaled with a grateful sigh.

"But this is incredible, Holmes. I mean, how could you expect this to be the case? There is absolutely nothing but these shredded pages to give you any proof of such a condition."

"No, I have no proof as of yet. But I am confident that some will come my way."

"Who do you expect has this condition that you speak of?" I asked, knowing that he was hinting that this person might have committed the murder of Virginia without even realizing it. "And how did they develop it?"

"I cannot say at this time," he said, taking another drag on his pipe. "But I am certain that I am correct." He looked pointedly at me, raising an eyebrow. "We need more information, Watson. We need to discover what we can about the childhood of the Deramore offspring. You are aware that they are all adopted?"

"Yes, I am. It's quite possible that they came from violent backgrounds of some sort, I suppose."

"Very possible. I propose that you speak with the butler of the household. He has known the children longer than even their mother, I would wager."

"And why is that?" I asked, getting to my feet and making my way around the maze of bedclothes once more.

"Because their mother, for all that she controls them, hardly knows them. There is much to be done, Watson. I hope that you are up for this?"

"I certainly am, Holmes."

My leg still causes me considerable pain, and I fear that I am still weary from the effects of my illness. Mary would surely scold me if she knew how much strain I am putting on myself. But I understand the importance of solving this case. I understand that it is part of a larger picture that needs to be solved before we can return to London. And that return cannot come soon enough, in my humble opinion.

* * *

_**Passage taken from the notebook of myself, Sherlock Holmes, reporting only the facts as they appeared in the hope that it will illuminate the reader. Dated 19 June 1896.** _

The apparently secret rendezvous between Lacey and August Deramore seems to support the theory of dissociation. In any case, they share a knowledge with their brother Lancelot that suggests fear. I do not believe that they know the exact identity of the killer of their sister, but I would say that they have a suspicion that they have not outwardly told either myself or the police. I heard them speaking in whispers in the room next to mine late last night; I was only able to understand the occasional whisper, but I feel as though I understood the gist of their conversation. It is most unfortunate that they have not seen fit to grace me with this information of their own free will.

August Deramore has supported the theory of amnesia; Lacey Deramore confirmed it. I will speak to their brother in the morning to make sense of this. He will tell me what I need to know. I will employ Watson's assistance in case of hesitation.

I observed Lacey Deramore leaving her brother's room shortly after their conversation, though she was not aware of the fact that I was present. I saw her cross the hall to the door opposite mine, before seeming to change her mind and move down the dark hallway to a large window a few feet away from my door. Although I was not able to see her face in the shadows, I heard her begin to laugh in a manner that built in intensity the longer it went on.

Another sound of laughing came from the room of her brother, and I must confess that I found their reaction to be quite baffling. It leaves me uneasy to see firsthand the powers of darkness that are at work in this strange house. I must confess that I will be relieved to have myself and Watson safely home to Baker Street once more.

* * *

_**The following is a telegram sent from Detective Inspector Lestrade on the 19** _ _**th** _ _**of June 1896.** _

_Sherlock Holmes_

_Care Somerton House, Deramore Residence_

_Toulson nonexistent, unhelpful. Unsure he is important in case. Hopkins on trail of new suspect, will report soon. Plan to arrive at Somerton House on 21 June_ _if we have not heard otherwise._

_Lestrade_

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 19 June 1896.** _

Hopkins seems sure that he's found something big, but I haven't seen anything to suggest such an achievement. All I know is that he's gone and disappeared, leaving me to explain to our superiors. I think it's doubtful that he's actually found anything of importance, but there's nothing to be done now that he's gone and I don't know where he is.

Sent a wire to Holmes this morning to let him know what's happening here in London. I still haven't heard anything from the man since he went to Somerton House, but I expected as much. He's not one to keep me informed. I must trust him here, but I doubt that my superiors will see it in the same way. I will give him two days before I travel up there. Hopefully that will keep the chief inspector at bay, and give Holmes the time that he needs to uncover what he can. I can only hope that the family up there will be more receptive to a private detective, even one so arrogant as Sherlock Holmes, than they would be to a detective inspector of Scotland Yard. One can only hope.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 19 June 1896.** _

Holmes informed me this morning of the strange laughter heard in the hall outside of his room in the night. I must confess to having heard it as well, for it is virtually impossible that I would have missed it. The sound startled me, and I confess a certain amount of anxiety at the memory. It was the strangest sound that I'd ever heard, and not something that I would like to hear again. I had so hoped that the entire family wasn't mad, but I'm beginning to have my doubts.

I attempted to meet with Lancelot Deramore yesterday afternoon, but he had gone out riding, according to his sister-in-law, Mary. She told me that he often does so, and that there was no way of knowing how soon he would be back.

I engaged her in casual conversation, wondering just how much she knew about the strange demeanor of her new family. She told me that she had only been married to August Deramore for about seven months. It had been an arranged marriage, for she was the daughter of an earl. Although she did not say so outwardly, I gathered that the marriage was not a happy one. Still, it would appear that their relationship was simply difficult, and not physically abusive as I had originally feared when I had seen how passionate she was when speaking about her husband.

She seemed willing to speak about the family in a way that rang true to my ears. I gather that she has no love for any of them, and the simple fact both saddened and heartened me, for I knew that she might be able to supply information that the others would not. I had asked about the health of her husband, telling her that I had heard something strange in the night. She informed me that she had gone to bed late and that her husband had been asleep when she'd arrived. Lady Mary's tone suggested that she had either been avoiding him, or she had been expressly told not to come to bed before a certain time. I rather suspected that it was a combination of both factors.

In all honesty, I felt sorry for this wretched woman. She seems very unhappy, despite everything. I found myself wondering if she was close to her late sister-in-law, but did not have the heart to ask her. Simply talking about her husband was enough to put tears in her eyes, and I did not think it proper to press the issue any further. I thanked her for her help and left her looking considerably more cheerful; perhaps it was just a kind word that was needed. I doubt she gets many in this place.

I plan to speak to Lancelot Deramore as soon as I get an opportunity to do so. That is, if Holmes doesn't speak to her first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The passage read and translated by Watson does not belong to me. It is from the aforementioned book, written by psychologist Pierre Janet. I am merely borrowing it for the sake of the story.
> 
> I also take the liberty of assuming that Holmes does speak French. Most gentlemen of the time would have been expected to speak it fluently. But, for canon specifics, towards the end of The Red-Headed League, Sherlock says, "L'homme c'est rien - l'oeuvre c'est tout" meaning "The man is nothing - his work is all that matters."


	10. Rather Delicate Matters

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 19 June 1896.** _

As I got onto the landing above the foyer, I became aware of the fact that the butler, a tall, shriveled man, was answering the bell. Pausing for a moment out of sheer curiosity, I watched as he admitted a most familiar personage into the house.

It is hardly necessary to describe the man, for many will remember him, yet I will do so for the sake of my notes regarding this case. From that angle, I could only see his lustrous top-hat, his dark frock-coat, and the carefully varnished shoes. But even from this distance, the meticulous care in dress for which he was famous was most apparent. Sir James Damery held himself like the aristocrat he was as he scanned the dimly lit foyer of the house.

His eye caught mine as he glanced around, and I could see a question flicker across his face as he nodded politely. As the butler led him into the morning room, I could not help but wonder what brought him to this house.

Readers may recall his conferences with Sir George Lewis concerning the Hammerford Will case, or, more recently, his dealings with General de Merville and his daughter Violet. Holmes once told me that this man has rather a reputation for arranging delicate matters that must be kept out of the papers. His diplomacy is renowned among the correct circles, the Deramores undoubtedly being among such people.

It was certainly obvious that I would not be able to speak with Sir James for quite some time, as he was otherwise engaged with the lady of the house. Therefore, I took it upon myself to attend the meeting with Lancelot that had been escaping me for quite some time now.

The meeting, such as it was, began with rather a most literal bang. After having seen Sir James, I continued up the stairs with the intention of going to Lancelot's room. I rounded a corner, and then was knocked off my feet, my cane flying in an unknown direction as something appeared to slam into me. Taken completely by surprise, I lay on the floor for a moment before a surprised voice cried out, hands gesturing toward me as though trying to help me up.

"Oh, I am so sorry, Doctor," Lacey Deramore said, her face obviously quite upset. "I didn't see you there."

Her brother Lancelot was with her, and he motioned for his sister to retrieve the cane as he helped me to my feet. "Are you alright, Doctor?" he asked, as Lacey sheepishly handed me the cane.

I considered for a brief moment, ignoring the stabbing pain that was coming from an angry knee. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. Thank you." I took the cane, transferring my weight from the brother to the stick. "Is… is everything all right? You seemed to be in quite a hurry."

"Oh, we're just fine. We were just fooling," said Lacey, her face flushed.

Although I had not seen them before I was on the floor, I was fairly certain that it was Lacey who had knocked me down, and not her brother. Lancelot had been a few seconds behind her. I hadn't heard anything, but now I was beginning to wonder if the cry that I had heard had not been apologetic. Rather a shout of something else entirely. Had he been chasing her?

"No harm done," I said finally, deciding that they obviously did not want me to know what had been happening for whatever reason. There was no point in pursuing the matter.

As Lacey began to slink off down the stairs, I put a hand out to stop her brother. "I was wondering if I may speak with you, Sir Lancelot," I said gently, searching his face. "In the interest of the case of your sister's murder."

"Of course, Dr. Watson," he said, looking down the stairs after his sister as though trying to decide if he should pursue her. "Where shall we go to talk?"

"Here suits me as well as anywhere, if you have no objections."

"Certainly not."

He sat down on the step, and I carefully lowered myself next to him. He looked down at his grey suit, rubbing a bit of the material between his fingers in a way that betrayed his nervousness. I couldn't help but wonder if the event that I had just "witnessed" had something to do with his discomfort.

"What would you like to ask me?" he asked, glancing over at me. He was a rather attractive young man, his hair cut short, though not cropped as closely as you might imagine. His face was young, but made old by a pair of green eyes that… held something unknown. Perhaps age, but that did not seem to be the case. What a strange boy, he is.

"Were you very close to your late sister?"

There was a long silence, though he did not appear to be considering the question. "Perhaps more close to her than our other siblings. She was young, delicate. She tried the patience of everyone with her hysterics, but I was always willing to be with her. Make sure that she took her powders and got enough rest. She was like a little flower. It didn't take much to throw her out of balance and into a fit."

"Lady Lacey has told me that your mother had little patience for her fits."

"That is a gross understatement, Dr. Watson." He paused to look down at his hands again. "My mother saw no reason to stand for Virginia's fits. She was… most cruel to her."

I could see that he did not want to be telling anyone this. As the oldest brother in the family, I knew that had a unique relationship with his brother and sisters. And after the death of his father… it was difficult to imagine what this young boy had gone through. He couldn't have been much older than twenty-five. I decided not to press the point. That would be for Holmes to do.

"Virginia was very ill," he continued of his own accord, apparently not aware of my presence any longer. "My mother did not seem to understand that. Then again, I wouldn't expect her to. It was because of her that Virginia became so delicate in the first place. You can hardly blame her after everything that she went through. It was disgusting. No less than what the rest of us went through, but her mind shattered like no other."

"The rest of you?" I hated to ask the question, but I felt like it must be asked.

"We were all adopted, as you know. Mother couldn't have children. Virginia was a Catholic girl's shame, you might say. She was left in the gutter, and found by our gardener when she was about two years old. The fact that she was even still alive… it was incredible. Mother hated us. She hated the fact that she couldn't have her own children. We were punished. We were not her children, and that was crime enough for her."

I didn't want to hear this story. What must it have been like for these children to live through it?

"The end result was that we were all damaged in one way or another. Virginia was simply the most noticeable. But she was a sweet girl. So beautiful and happy when she wasn't upset. Those times became more and more infrequent as we drew closer to her death. I don't know what happened to trigger her sudden deterioration. But I would bet anything that Mother had something to do with it."

"Do you believe that she was murdered?" I asked softly, putting a hand on his shoulder that he didn't seem to notice.

"I want to. But I don't know. Virginia was increasingly more desperate as time went by. Perhaps someone convinced her to take the poison. Perhaps she did it of her own accord. In any case, she's dead. And Mother is responsible, whether or not she held the cup."

I must confess that I had no idea what to say in response to this story. I was rather inclined to believe him. But I could see that he was quite upset, so I thought it best to change the subject. "Have any of your other siblings experienced ill effects from your childhood?"

He must have immediately picked up on the fact that I was referring to a mental disease. Whether or not he realized that my suspicions were beginning to turn to Lacey was a different matter entirely. "I don't want to talk about this."

He was on his feet now, rushing down the stairs, as though following after his sister. She may have been long gone by now, but that wasn't about to stop him.

I watched him leave with a feeling of incredulity. What in the world had possessed him to leave in such a way? Was I correct about Lacey? What bearing did that have on the case, if any at all? I shook my head, realizing that I was going to have to somehow get to my feet.

I pushed down on the cane in front of me, trying to carefully guide myself up. Luckily, the motion was not needed, for I felt hands on my elbow, guiding me to my feet.

"That was a most interesting interview, Watson, do you not think?"

I straightened my jacket as I turned to face Holmes. "Quite so. Did you learn anything from it?"

"I rather think that Lacey Deramore is certainly the one that we are looking for as far as the dissociation is concerned. Did you not see his face when you asked your last question?" he folded his arms, leaning against the bannister.

"I did. Do you think that she has anything to do with the death of her sister?"

"That I am not sure of. But I expect that evidence will surface in time."

"Have you seen who has arrived downstairs?" I asked, adjusting my grip on the cane.

"No, I have not." His face betrayed his interest, and he nodded for me to follow him down the stairs. We began to slowly descend.

"Sir James Damery."

At that, he paused in mid step, his eyes going wild with a certain amount of fascination. "Really? Well now, that is most interesting. I wonder what it is that we have stumbled upon for the lady of the house to need to call upon Sir James."

"I cannot imagine," said I, continuing down the stairs. "But I do hope for a meeting with him before he leaves the house."

"I doubt you will be able to procure such a meeting. The lady will surely have forbidden him to speak of this matter to anyone, ourselves especially. No, we will need to continue on our weary way. The answers that we seek will become apparent in time, as they always do."

"One can hope."

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 19 June 1896.** _

The absence of Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson makes for a most quiet household. Inspector Lestrade has been checking in on me at least once a day. He says that his visits were requested by Mr. Holmes to keep me safe, but I do wonder if it isn't because the inspector himself is worried about me. He is such a dear man, even if he is a bit rough around the edges.

Annie Lestrade sent little Jemmy and his sister Sadie 'round this morning to deliver a note. She had invited me for a spot of tea, and I was glad for a chance to leave the house and visit with her again. I went together with the two back to their house, Jemmy chattering away as we walked. I cannot get over just how much the boy has grown up since I saw him last. He is growing into a fine young thing, and his sister is just beautiful.

The visit with Annie was just lovely. Her little ones have been ill recently, so I knew that she was glad to have a bit of company as well. She told me all about the children, and her husband and how he has been doing at Scotland Yard. I know that she is quite proud of him, and for good reason. I did remember to thank her for all the kindness she's shown to me since the good doctor fell ill. It was very good of her to take notice of me.

The children played very nicely as we talked, very well behaved. I told Annie just how grown up they were, and she looked so proud of them. I must go and see them more often. They grow up too fast. I never used to believe that, but it really is true.

I was rather late going back to Baker Street, as we were enjoying ourselves so much. Annie was most worried about my traveling home alone when it was after dark, but I didn't see why. She insisted that I wait until her husband arrived home, but I just couldn't wait that long. Mr. Holmes will have called me foolish, but I felt that it was best. Annie didn't believe me, but she finally let me go. Jemmy and Sadie was very disappointed when they could not come with me, but I promised that I would visit them again soon. I didn't want them out on the streets with me.

The trip home was rather ordinary, until I arrived at the door of the house. As I unlocked the door, I thought that I heard someone in the side street just a few feet from me. I don't know why it caught my attention, but I didn't like it, particularly when I heard a dog growling. I think that the dog was with the person. I thought about going to see what it was, but then decided that would be unnecessarily dangerous.

I hurried into the house and made sure to lock up tightly. That was about an hour ago. I don't think that I've heard anything else since, but I thought that there was a scratching at the door for a few moments. Whatever it was, I think that it's gone now. The constable making his rounds must have scared the thing away.

If I hear it again, I will call the police, and I will tell Inspector Lestrade when he comes tomorrow. I do wish that Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson were here. They would know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers will recall Sir James Damery from The Illustrious Client, as found in the Case Book.


	11. Thick Flow

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 20 June 1896.** _

Quite unexpectedly, Inspector Lestrade has arrived from London a day earlier than we had anticipated. The lady of the house, whom I would have expected to seem greatly inconvenienced by such an intrusion, greeted the inspector cordially and insisted that he was no trouble. She has given him a room across the hall from my own, as he will remain here for an indeterminate amount of time.

The inspector gave no apparent reasoning for his premature arrival, for I cannot bring myself to accept his excuse. Saying that his business finished early in London may be a perfectly logical reason under normal circumstances, but, somehow, it just does not seem right.

Having arrived three quarters of an hour ago, he has disappeared into his room saying that he has a letter to write, leaving both Holmes and myself to wonder what he is doing here. Even Holmes looked at him in a bewildered manner for a short period, although he has since appeared to have been able to put the matter out of his mind.

I fear I must stray from this entry, for Lestrade has emerged and it requesting that Holmes and I join him in his room post haste.

* * *

_Later_

Good gracious, but I was not expecting the dreadful news that Lestrade had to offer. It appears that Mr. Toulson is dead.

Evidently, there was a fire, supposedly started by a spark having flown out of the chimney. Our Mr. Toulson was found dead on the floor when a policeman entered the house in an effort to save any resident. He was carried out of the house, and thought to have suffocated in the thick smoke of the fire, for there were very few burn marks upon his person.

However, when the body was sent down to the mortuary to be identified, the police surgeon noted that his death did not appear to be a simple accident after all. Lestrade, being nothing of a medical man, stumbled slightly over the details here, but I gathered that the characteristic, cherry-red blood that is normally associated with death by asphyxiation was not present.

Death by carbon monoxide poisoning, I reasoned out before Lestrade confirmed my suspicion. When I asked if there was any chance that it could have been an accident, he looked doubtful.

"There's always that chance, but I don't think that is the case this time." He pulled a piece of paper out of his trouser pocket and handed it to Holmes, who looked at it with a serious expression.

"It would appear that our Mr. Toulson is not who he claimed to be," he mused thoughtfully. "Well, we knew that much already. But I did not dare assume that he knew quite so much about the very family that we are now staying with."

"What do you mean, Holmes?" I asked, feeling at a bit of a disadvantage with both men obviously knowing more about this than I.

"This letter," he said, brandishing it so that I could see that it was damaged by smoke, and singed in several places, "It suggests to me, from what I can decipher at such short notice, that Mr. Toulson was in some way related to the Deramore family. If I had to place a wager, I would say that he is the uncle of these children, quite probably the brother of the Lady Deramore herself."

"How can you possibly know that?" asked Lestrade in bewilderment; it was obvious that not even he had been able to get so far with the letter, having had it in his possession for quite some time.

"The manner in which this letter is written. I cannot make all of it out, for it is so damaged. But the familiarity with which our man writes suggests an intimate relationship with the recipient of the letter, who is, of course, our charming hostess."

"Do you think that she knows he is dead?" I asked, trying to ingest such a piece of information.

"I doubt it. He has been identified as his alias, not as his real name. I would doubt that the lady of the house knows his name, only that he lives a double life in London."

"Well, surely we should tell her if a man whom we suspect is her brother is dead. She has the right to know."

"Certainly, Watson," he said absently, "but I rather think that it would be difficult to explain to her exactly how we know the identity of this man."

Lestrade shook his head. "She's bound to find out sooner or later. Better from us now than making her wait."

Holmes didn't look convinced. "I'm not sure that is wise," he said.

"Nonsense. I'm going downstairs to tell the lady of the house. You can come with me if you'd like."

Holmes apparently did "like" to a certain extent, for he followed the two of us downstairs in silence. I wasn't sure that I agreed with the sentiment of letting the woman know that her brother was dead, but I didn't see how we were going to be able to convince Lestrade not to tell her. He is as stubborn as a mule when he wants to be, particularly when he disagrees with Holmes. It makes one wonder why the two of them have worked together for so long when they reach a point where they aren't quite speaking to each other. It makes them appear quite childish in any case.

Lady Deramore took the news quite well, all things considered. We met her in her sitting room, Lacey and Lancelot at her side, presumably just to visit with their mother. Holmes had drawn the line as far as Lestrade showing the lady the picture from the mortuary, but Lady Deramore insisted. I don't think that she believed us initially, truth be told.

When she saw the picture, I could see her tightening the muscles of her neck, as if in protest, although her face remained perfectly straight. She held the picture in her hand for a long moment, as though trying to decide what the best course of action to take would be.

Whether it was a purposeful action by her mother or not, the photograph strayed towards Lacey Deramore, who was able to catch a glimpse of the man. I could see her eyes widening in an instant, in utter disbelief.

"I've never seen that man before in my life," Lady Deramore said confidently, although the flexing muscles in her neck and now her fists were betraying the lie.

Before anyone could question her any further, Lacey Deramore did something completely unexpected by all who were present. She flew into a passionate hysteria, head flung into her waiting arms, tears streaming down her face, and high-pitched, gasping breaths and screams. Although to call them screams would have been quite generous, as there simply wasn't enough breath in her lungs to make such a sound.

Her brother was quite alarmed at her sudden fit, and her mother looked horrified, although I suspected the horror was simply devoted to the fact that she was acting this way in front of a number of guests.

It soon became clear that it would not be easy to calm the girl down, so Lancelot and Lestrade carried her between them upstairs to her room while I instructed Holmes to fetch my bag from my room. Once we were all in Lacey's bedroom, I had no choice but to give her a sedative, for she came too close to injuring the two men who carried her. Indeed, a rather lethal-looking blow came in contact with Lestrade's face, although he didn't flinch at her nails.

Once she was asleep, I assured Lancelot that Holmes and I would stay with her while she slept, so that I could keep an eye on her and make sure that the sedative did not have any ill effects. He seemed reluctant to leave her, but Holmes gently suggested that he inform his mother of the girl's condition. When he finally left, I noted that Lestrade had a slow dribble of blood running down his face, apparently coming from his nose, although his displeased expression made me chuckle in spite of myself.

"Would you like me to clean that for you?" I asked, concealing a further smirk when he shot me a look of vivid irritation.

"No, that's fine. I've had far worse on the job."

"I can imagine," said Holmes dryly from his perch on the arm of a chair that rested in the corner of the room. "I don't see why you're so displeased, Lestrade. I rather think that this proves your point. The man we know as Toulson obviously knew this family quite well."

"That doesn't explain why the youngest daughter would fall to pieces at the news of his death," I pointed out. "Even if he was her uncle, that seems like a rather extreme reaction."

"Under perfectly normal circumstances, I would agree with you. But we already had our suspicions that she wasn't entirely sane in any case." Holmes shrugged. "You are more of an expert than either of us, Watson, when one considers the dissociation condition. Would intense hysteria and the mood swings that we have been witness to be a characteristic of such a condition?"

I shrugged, watching Lestrade attempt to wipe away the blood on his face with his handkerchief. "Yes, I suppose that it would be. I'm not an authority on such mental conditions, Holmes."

Holmes nodded, alternating between a look of amusement at Lestrade, (who was having a surprising amount of difficulty curtailing the flow) and an expression of contemplation. "I have a feeling that she is more involved in both our cases than we could have anticipated at first sight."

"You mean the death of her brother in London as well as her sister here at the house?" asked Lestrade thickly, still rejecting my offers of assistance.

"Exactly. But we will not be able to act upon my hypothesis until she regains consciousness. How long do you expect it will be until she awakens, Watson?" asked Holmes, folding his arms and heaving a sigh.

"It'll be a number of hours. I didn't give her a great deal, but she is so small that I would expect she'll be asleep for at least two hours."

"In that case, we will take advantage of this moment to do some preliminary thinking before our conversation with the young lady." Holmes shifted so that he fell gracefully between the arms of the chair and retrieved his pipe from his jacket pocket. Taking a paper package of tobacco from another pocket, he carefully filled his pipe. "Watson, do you have a light?"

With a sigh, I moved forward and lit the pipe. "Keep the smoke away from her," I chided, nodding for him to face the other direction. "The last thing we need is for you to give her a health concern from your smoke."

He raised his eyebrows in annoyance, but compliantly turned away.

Lestrade, who appeared to have finally stemmed the flow of blood, sighed and held his bloody handkerchief in his hand. "I think that I'm going off to my room for a while to clean some of this up. I'll be back before she wakes up."

I nodded, and he left the room. Now that I was left with a contemplating detective and a sleeping girl, I couldn't help but allow myself to slip into thought. Considerations about the case, the photograph, the death of Toulson, and the reaction of Lacey Deramore flooded my mind, and I leaned back in a chair that was next to the bed, allowing my eyes to close.

* * *

**_From the private records of Inspector S. Hopkins. Entry dated 20 June 1896_ **

Lestrade has gone to the house of the late Mr. Clay's family. At least, that's what he says. I'm still not sure if I agree with him. The man wasn't identified as Dera-whatsit. He was identified as Clay. But, as it appears to be out of my hands, there's nothing I can do other than pursue the Toulson murder case.

That was one judgment about the case that I did agree with Lestrade about. The police surgeon was adamant about the fact that he was poisoned, and I think that most of us agree that it was deliberate, and not just an accident in the home. It's quite a fascinating development to the case, and I was rather intrigued, to be entirely honest. I never liked the man, so I can't exactly say that I'm sorry that he's dead. But it's my job to make sure that justice is served, and justice will be served, for it is my duty to make sure that the filthy murderer is caught and put behind bars. The sooner the better.

I find it a bit difficult to know where to start, as we know so little about his family. The life that he gave us was obviously false. He can't have spent much time building it up, but that's my opinion. If Lestrade thinks that he's got a lead with the Deramore family, then I wish him the best of luck. I'll see what I can do here in London in his absence.

With any luck, I'll have the case all wrapped up before the good inspector and the detective return to London. It is my case, after all, and not theirs.


	12. Baggage

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 20 June 1896.** _

It did not take very long for the lady of the house to force her way past Lestrade and into the room of her unconscious daughter. And, under normal circumstances, I would have fully understood her concern. Perhaps it was unfair of me, but I found myself wondering why she was displaying such a show of disquiet after several days of obviously not caring about her children.

She burst her way into the bedroom, and I chided her in a low hiss for her behavior, telling her that it would not be good at all to wake the sick girl. Although she looked quite angry at my words, I could see that she understood my meaning.

Quietly, and with some difficulty, she made her way toward the bed to sit on the foot, her eyes gazing into the face of her daughter. I couldn't quiet place the expression on her face. Was it regret? Bitterness?

"Why were you there when your brother killed your son?"

Lady Deramore jumped, though whether her reaction was due to the question or the fact that she hadn't seen Holmes in his quiet corner of the room, I couldn't quite say. She turned her head around to examine his face, while he returned her gaze with a cool expression of curiosity. "I don't know what you mean."

"I wondered if you were responsible when I saw your hands," Holmes continued amiably.

"My hands?" she repeated, obviously bewildered.

As was I. I frowned down at her lap, where she now hid her hands from my view, refusing to meet my gaze. True to form, Holmes had managed to see what the rest of us had missed.

The door was pushed open to reveal Lestrade, who quietly came and took a position of authority inside the door, closing it behind him. I could tell that he had been listening from outside the door where he had been playing guard. His expression was puzzled, but he knew what was going on. He knew, as I did, that it was only a matter of time until everything would be revealed.

"The police missed one key detail when the body of your son was examined."

"And what was that?" she asked stiffly. It was extremely unnerving how her eyes never blinked as she simply stared down at her hands.

"There were two sets of hand marks on his neck. Two distinct personages. A smaller pair of hands, a pair that was not successful in the strangulation. A larger pair of hands that presumably finished the job. "Holmes flexed his fingers as though recalling a memory of the event. "Presumably you found yourself unable to finish the job because of the affliction that plagues your hands. You must have felt a great deal of hatred to have even tried, what with the state your hands are in."

"Hold on," said Lestrade, shifting his weight. "You're saying that Lady Deramore here killed her son, but she had an accomplice. Who in the world would be willing to help her? And why?"

"Oh, that much is simple, Lestrade," said Holmes, a glimmer of regret on his face. "I should have seen it from the start. I'd suspected, but I didn't realize…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Go on," I said, casting a glance down at my patient, who had yet to stir. Her hair covered her face, and I resisted the urge to smooth it back for fear of angering the mother.

"It was our Mr. Toulson, of course." He paused, allowing the information to soak into those of us who were gathered. "As you are already aware, he is the brother of her ladyship. I suppose that she should be grateful of the fact that her brother is so willing to help her. Even when there are certain… adventures that she wishes him to undertake that are somewhat less than moral."

"This is slanderous," said Lady Deramore, bristling and apparently bringing life back into herself in order to protest the allegations. "You have absolutely no proof. If what you say is true, why would I order his death? I love my brother, as do my children. Even though he was a witness, he had more to lose than I."

"Perhaps. But you did kill your son with his help, and you did not order his death. Neither did you kill him yourself."

"Then who did?" asked Lestrade, his expression being one of disbelief.

The question was apparently unexpected, and Holmes paused for a long moment, obviously feeling the eyes on his form. "I don't know," he said finally, although I don't believe that any of us took that answer to be the truth. "But I expect that all we have to do is speak to the landlady of our Mr. Toulson to be able to discover exactly who Mr. Toulson really was."

"You don't know that he's my brother," protested Lady Deramore, grasping at straws.

Holmes threw up his hand, pursing his lips. "Please, Lady Deramore, do not think that you can deceive us in this manner. We all know what you did…"

She looked terrified; it was obvious that she knew that she was caught. I could see her wondering what she could do. There wasn't much. "I won't confess. I'm not a murderer."

"Whether or not you are a murderer, you're hardly a mother," I felt obliged to add. "You could never call your children your own after what you've done to them."

"I did it for their own good," she spat, apparently not feeling any need to disguise her abusive tendencies. "They came from too many backgrounds with too many ideas of their own. They all needed to be brought to the same level. They deserved it after I realized what they were…"

"What they were?" asked Lestrade, and this time his bewilderment was enough to almost make me chuckle. I'd forgotten that he knew nothing about how the lady of the house had repeatedly abused her children ever since their adoption. For a moment, I regretted bringing it up; it was not a topic that I was happy to know so much about. It was almost too terrible to tell, but Lestrade had very likely seen a great deal worse in his time as an inspector at Scotland Yard.

"The mental abuse was so much worse than the physical," said Holmes softly, and anger was slowly appearing behind his eyes. "You broke them. Every single one of them. You drove one to madness, the rest to fear and hatred. Why did you kill your son?"

Apparently the goading was enough. A curious mixture of hatred and tears came over her face, and she hissed, "I wouldn't expect a man like you to ever understand. What he had done to me. It was intolerable. He needed to die." The words were spoken in choppy, incomplete sentences for some sort of emphasis, although I suspected that the shrill breath in her lungs was keeping her from speaking faster. "He was insolent, and he was going to tell. He was going to get my children taken away from me. All of them. And I couldn't let that happen."

"You'd disowned him. What did you think was going to happen?" Evidently, Lestrade knew that much.

"He'd sworn that he wouldn't tell… He was a damn liar." Her eyes had a certain amount of flame in them and I half expected her to spring at Holmes at any second. "I had to make sure that he would stop."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "She's mad," I breathed, setting my chin into my hand and trying to take all of this in.

"I came to visit him in his home in London. I tried to tell him to stop. He tried to attack me. He was always madder than I ever was. I'd never seen him like that. He would have…" she trailed off, her face going scarlet, "If my brother hadn't stopped him."

The pieces were going together in my mind, and I sucked in my breath as I realized what she was implying, unable to look at her. My face burned as I shook my head in horror. Surely such an attempt was not worth coldblooded murder…

"I didn't want to kill him before. But he had to die. He had to die." The phrase was becoming a mantra as though she was trying to convince herself that she had been right to do the deed. "I didn't know what else to do. I didn't think straight." She stared directly at Lestrade, who also seemed unable to look at her. "But I didn't kill Virginia. I swear to you that I had nothing to do with her death. I was just as surprised as everyone else in the house."

"I believe you," Holmes said gently. I could see that he was still disapproving of the murder that she did commit. But he was able to keep a calm air about him as he spoke nonetheless. "I think you know who did."

Her eyes dropped. "I don't _know_."

"But you have your suspicions."

"Perhaps. But I don't have to share them with you." Her gaze was steady, unwavering, challenging. "Not now in any case."

"I think you should share them now," said Lestrade from his position by the door. "I don't want to have to arrest you for withholding evidence as well as murder. Or attempted murder if I'm to believe what Mr. Holmes here is saying."

She glared at him. "Tomorrow. I need some time to collect my thoughts. I discovered something today that has changed my views on the death of my daughter. I'm not ready to speak of it yet."

"I urge you to speak now," said Holmes, and the concern in his voice was real. "It could be very dangerous for you if you don't tell us everything that you know."

She shook her head stubbornly. "I don't have to tell you anything, Mr. Holmes. Not after the way that you have treated me in my own home. I must ask that all of you leave myself and my daughter. Immediately."

I opened my mouth to protest as a doctor, but she waved me down. She no longer spoke, just waited with an iron presence for us to leave. I could see that Lestrade wanted to argue the point, but Holmes seemed to realize that there was nothing he would be able to do. He nodded for the two of us to follow him as he left the room in silence.

Since that incredible episode, I found that I realized what Holmes had been referring to when he had mentioned her hands. It had seemed insignificant before, so much so that I had barely noticed it, but Lady Deramore suffered rheumatism in her hands. The mere fact that she attempted to strangle a grown man when she has trouble controlling a writing utensil seemed incredible to me. It was proof of the fact that she really was as insane as I had thought. Her son's death was a moment of madness on her part, but the uncle killed deliberately and perhaps not just because his sister had instructed him to do so. It still didn't explain why Lacey had reacted so hysterically to his death, but it was a start. One murder had been cleared up most efficiently. I only hope that we will be able to clear up the second before something dreadful happens.

* * *

_**The following is from the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 21 June 1896** _

The lovely Mrs. Watson has finally arrived in London once more, and for that I am very glad. Naturally, she was upset about the fact that her husband has not yet returned to the flat. I have told her that she is welcome to stay with me in Baker Street until the doctor returns, for I do not think it wise for her to remain alone with the streets the way that they've been as of late. Thankfully, she agreed that it would be for the best.

Having heard of Mary Watson's return to London, Annie Lestrade invited the both of us for tea this evening, eager to catch up with her dear friend. It had been a long while since the three of us had enjoyed a meal together. As the little Lestrades played at our feet, I found myself heartily enjoying the meeting. It was homey, an experience that I have not had since my boys left Baker Street. One needs companionship when one is troubled.

Annie lamented the fact that her husband has joined Mr. Holmes and the doctor in the country house of the wealthy family. I told her that I hoped his presence would mean that they would be able to finish their business soon, thereby returning home to us soon. Mary agreed wholeheartedly; it's hardest on her, for she has not seen Dr. Watson in a very long time.

It was wonderful to be able to enjoy a bit of small talk, and I was very sad when it was time to leave. With a solemn promise that she would invite us again very soon, Annie Lestrade waved the two of us off. We decided to hail a hansom in order to avoid any mischief makers that might be on the way back to the flat.

Mary was quiet during the ride, and I could see that she was weary. Her journey to London took about two full days and nights of traveling when it should only have taken about six hours. She is not one for traveling long distances, but I wondered if there was something that she wasn't telling me.

And I was certainly correct in my wonderings. When I asked her if she was alright, she gave me a sweet, beautiful smile that made her entire face glow so brightly that I wanted to hug her. Her unspoken answer was enough for me, and I kissed her forehead to congratulate her. The dear, sweet girl…

I expect that she hasn't told her husband yet, and I do disapprove of that. But she's promised me that she'll tell him as soon as he returns to Baker Street, for she doesn't want to distract him while he is working on the case. I'm not sure I approve of that answer, but it is her news to give, and not mine. I'll be content to be witness to the doctor's reaction. What a day that will be. It can't come soon enough, I must say.


	13. Unbearable Deceit

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 22 June 1896.** _

Lady Cecilia Deramore is a fool.

It pains me to be required to say so, but I fear that it is the truth. Her stubborn hesitation to tell us what she knew of her daughter's death has made it necessary for her to pay the ultimate price. How could she have not predicted that such an event would happen when she made it perfectly clear to her children that she knew which of them had murdered their sister? I do not understand. I am numb.

Unlike before with the death of Toulson, the murderer did nothing to disguise the crime. Lady Deramore was found stabbed to death in her bed. My initial examination shows at least four wounds to the chest alone; more than one reached her heart and death was instantaneous. A proper examination in the operating room will give me a better idea of specifics.

It would appear that there was no struggle. The woman was killed in her sleep. Whether or not she woke is unclear, but I would guess that she did not. Her murderer wanted her to pay, but did not want to deal with her awakening and rousing the household. It appears that she was drugged to paralyze her while the deed was being done.

Holmes was unsurprised at the horribly grisly sight, but his eyes were sad as he examined the scene. "The killer was right handed," he said softly, as though trying to push the horror out of his mind by carrying on with the investigation. "See by the angle of the wounds."

"Lacey is left handed," I said, finally covering the bloody face with a sheet from the bed.

"Lacey killed her sister, but not her mother."

"What?" I breathed, freezing in place for a moment to allow the sentence to sink into my mind. "What are you talking about?"

He was silent, just shaking his head at the fact that anyone would be coldhearted enough to do something like this. "Does Lestrade know about this death?"

"He's on his way."

"Good. He will want to hear this."

* * *

_**From the private diary of Annie Lestrade. Entry dated 22 June 1896.** _

Good God, but I cannot believe what I have been through this day. The children are greatly upset and missing their father, and I must say that I am not far behind them.

Inspector Hopkins visited the house this morning, looking extremely pale and shaky. Geoff had told him to check in on myself and the children while he was away to make sure that we have everything we need. But I found myself realizing that Inspector Hopkins needed my help a great deal more than I needed his.

I immediately sat him down when he entered, for he looked as though he would not be able to stand on his own two feet for much longer. I shooed the children out of the room; they looked frightened at the inspector's condition and I needed to be able to concentrate on the problem at hand. I promised them that I would explain everything to them later and told them that the man simply felt ill. He would be just fine. I hoped that the verdict would be as cheerful as I was promising my children.

It didn't take long for me to realize that it wouldn't be as easy as I'd hoped. His heartbeat was so fast that I thought it might leap out of his chest altogether and dash off. His arms were flailing in all directions, nearly smacking me upside the face more than once. He was mumbling something that I couldn't understand, and the way that he clutched his midsection frightened me. I realized that this was too much for me to handle on my own.

With a promise that I would be right back, I dashed out onto the street to find someone who would be able to help me get him to hospital. There was one man who stood out to me immediately and I hurried forward to ask him for assistance. He told me that he could get him as far as a hansom if I promised to deliver a message to my husband.

Now that I look back on it, I realize that it was foolish of me not to wonder how he knew the identity of my husband like that. But I agreed and he handed me a folded piece of paper, which I tucked into the pocket of my apron. We carried the inspector to a hansom, I asked a neighbor to look after my children, and we hurried off to hospital to find help.

I remained with him as long as I could. The doctors told me that his symptoms were characteristic to an overdose of cocaine. I was shocked; I couldn't ever place the inspector as one who would have need of such a substance.

But there was nothing more I could do. The inspector's wife had arrived by that point, and she thanked me for what I had done to help her husband. I assured her that it was my pleasure, and told her that I must get back to my children.

It wasn't until now that I remembered the note that the man had given me. I read it and it's frightened me. I don't know whether I should telephone it to Geoff or not. The message isn't for him; it's for Mr. Holmes. It's a warning. The inspector was poisoned.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 22 June 1896** _

I was quite surprised to see Annie Lestrade at the door of the house so soon after our tea. But I fear that this was not just a social call, though I do wish that I could say it was.

She appeared at our door a while after midday, looking rumpled and tearstained. Her appearance was so startling that I invited her into the hall without even stopping to ask her what she was doing there. Mary came in, looking tired and ill but her face nearly cleared as soon as she saw that her friend was in need of help. I feel for the poor woman, for the early stages of her condition are never easy, but she appears to have been more ill than is normal. We all react differently to the coming of children, and she is no exception. With that said, I do have to say that I cannot remember my own childbearing years with much clarity, so her condition may be quite normal.

We brought Annie into the kitchen and I put the kettle on immediately. A cup of tea was obviously just what she needed to help calm down so that she could tell us what the matter was. Of course, I was right and she accepted the cup gratefully. She sipped in silence as I poured myself a cup and a cup for Mary, who was still holding Annie's hand as she had done since Annie had entered the house. There was a long silence as I stirred my cup and I couldn't help but feel tenderly impatient at her. I wanted so much to help but I felt useless when I didn't know what the problem was.

Finally, she was able to speak and told us that Inspector Hopkins from Scotland Yard had arrived ill at her house that morning. She'd had no choice but to take him to hospital, where they told her that he'd been poisoned. And as if that weren't enough, she was given a note threatening Mr. Holmes. She was very upset and did not know what to do.

I wished that I could offer more help, but the news sent my mind blank for a time. We all sat in silence, digesting tea and information. It was all too unexpected.

How I wish that was all the news that she had. But, alas, it wasn't. She had been returning home with the intention of disposing of the note without ever delivering it, when a different man trapped her in an alleyway and threatened her children if she failed to do what she had been told. She had checked with her neighbor to make certain that the little ones were all right, and then had hurried along to Baker Street to get help. We knew that the only thing we could do was to call the menfolk.

But Mr. Holmes is out of contact; I cannot get a soul to answer the telephone at the great house. I don't know what to do. All I can do is hope that Mr. Holmes and the doctor return soon. I only wish that we could greet them with better news. I've told Annie that she and the children must stay here until the man return, and she has agreed.

I will keep trying to call the house until someone can get the message through.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 22 June 1896.** _

Inspector Lestrade was not surprised at the death of the lady of the house; I must say that none of us were. Saddened, but not surprised. Unfortunately, that was a lot more than I could say for the children of the house, who do not seem particularly grieved, simply surprised that one of them managed to get up the backbone required to kill. Apparently, their mother's death was almost welcome. I cannot even begin to voice how disgusted I am by the lot of them.

Which led me to beg the question: Why didn't Holmes foresee this tragedy? Why didn't he stop it?

When I asked him so, he looked upon me with the most mortal, dreadfully desolate eyes. He sat himself down on the trunk that rested at the end of his bed, staring into the wall for a long moment, so that I wondered if he would answer me at all. Then, he looked up at me and simply shook his head.

"There was nothing we could have done," he said, dropping his eyes again.

"I don't understand, Holmes," I said. I must confess that I felt a certain twinge of guilt for asking, as he looked so pained, but it couldn't be helped. A woman had died. Died horribly… "Didn't you know that she was going to die?"

"How could I have known? The only other person in the room was unconscious, if your prescribing hand may be counted upon." The excuse was flat, and he knew it. "I expected that her words would expect the murderer to act, but he was a fool to act when he did. I had thought that he was more clever than that. I refuse to say that he outwitted me, but his stupidity surprised me."

Before I could press the point any further, a knock sounded upon the door and Lestrade entered the room. His face said that he had seen the body. "What is this, Holmes?" he asked, coming to stand next to me against the wall. "What do we do now? I thought that she was the killer. Her and her brother. They killed the son in London and the girl here. End of the story. And now I know that you're going to tell me that there was more to this. So did she kill her son or didn't she?" His voice betrayed anger and he didn't seem able to look at either of us.

"Of course she did, Lestrade," said Holmes, appearing to come back to life in an instant, as though only to spite the inspector.

"Did she kill the daughter?"

"No, of course not."

Lestrade threw his hands in the air and almost seemed to growl. "Holmes, you'd better have a damn good explanation for all of this. People are dying, and you've done absolutely nothing to stop it."

"Then go and arrest Lancelot. And Lacey. Both of them."

I was not the only one who simply stared at Holmes with an open mouth; Lestrade looked positively shell-shocked. "What are you saying, Holmes?" I asked, trying to understand. "Wait. I think…"

"You saw yourself, inspector, that the two of them were as thick as thieves. Which of the children had the most compassion for his sister?" Holmes was on his feet now, smoothing his waistcoat and tugging at his jacket. "Lancelot had studied her disability, that much we know. He convinced her to kill their sister so that her mental condition would be blamed if they were found out. But he didn't want to risk asking her to kill their mother. She'd been under too much stress since Virginia's death. Asking her to complete two murders in such a short amount of time could have shattered her mind, and that would mean that his alibi would be lost."

"But why would he want to kill any of them?" asked Lestrade.

Holmes froze for a moment, and I couldn't place his hesitation as ignorance or the cooking of a lie. "Inheritance, my dear inspector. Those who benefited from Lady Deramore's will."

Lestrade nodded slowly, still looking bewildered.

"Go and arrest him, inspector. Lacey will be dealt with by myself and Watson. Sending her to prison could seriously damage her."

"Quite so."

Holmes has not offered any further explanation for his behavior since then, but he has informed me that we will be returning to London in the morning. I can only hope that he'll be in a more talkative mood.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 22 June 1896** _

Mr. Holmes and the doctor will be returning to London on tomorrow's train. I do say that the threatening message did not make any sense whatsoever to me, but I know that it has upset Mr. Holmes greatly when I finally was able to reach him. Annie and Mary were relieved to hear that their husbands will be returning soon, and that the business at the house appears to be cleared up. I know that I won't be letting either of them out of my sight until the men have returned.


	14. Homecoming

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 23 June 1896.** _

I must say that the only member of the Deramore family who seemed particularly shaken by the death of the mother was Lacey herself. It pained me to have to sedate her again, so soon after the last occurrence, but her brothers insist to me that her system is used to such treatment. Holmes has told me that he feels it would be best if we brought her back to London to receive proper care and treatment, away from the ghosts that haunt this manor house.

Deciding that her leaving would be best done as soon as possible, I sat down with her brothers early this morning to ask what their opinion would be. August, Lancelot, and John, being the husband of the late Virginia, all agreed to speak with me. Lancelot has not yet been arrested, despite Holmes' insistence. I rather think that Lestrade feels sorry for him after everything that's happened. I cannot say whether I agree with him or not, for I cannot approve of murder. But she was a horrid woman, at the expense of speaking ill of the dead. In any case, Lancelot has been confined to the house, as have the other members of his family.

"It is my professional opinion that your sister Lacey be taken back to London in order to receive care for her affliction. As you can see, she is severely unbalanced by the events of late."

Lancelot was adamant in his pleas for that not to happen, but John and August looked as though they were seriously considering the possibility. I understood the sentiment behind Lancelot's objections; after all, he'd been trying to do everything that he could to care for her and keep such a thing as this from happening.

"Mr. Deramore, if I may ask, did you tell your sister to kill Virginia Deramore?"

It was the first time that anyone had directly accused him of the crime, for we'd all been consciously avoiding a statement such as that. Perhaps for the benefit of Lacey, perhaps for our own, but it was becoming tiresome. However, looking back upon it now, I must say that I wonder if I should have been so pretentious in asking such a question.

In any case, Lancelot did not look particularly surprised by my question. While he had denied his inclusion in the crime to Lestrade, he did not seem as though he wished to play the same game with me. "Yes. I did."

"And you killed her?"

"Yes."

"Why?" It was only an inhuman curiosity that prompted me to speak my question.

"Because she's a bitch. And I'm too smart for her."

* * *

_**The following is a telegram sent from Detective Inspector Lestrade on the 23** _ _**rd** _ _**of June 1896.** _

_Dr. Philip Barton_

_Care The London Hospital_

_Escorting aforementioned female patient to London today. Constant watching necessity. Danger to self. Arriving evening._

_Lestrade_

* * *

_**Passage taken from the notebook of myself, Sherlock Holmes, reporting only the facts as they appeared in the hope that it will illuminate the reader. Dated 23 June 1896.** _

Mr. Lancelot Deramore has been taken into police custody. Lacey will be escorted to the London Hospital for psychiatric testing, and will most likely be transferred to Bedlam. Watson has expressed horror that her mother shows a certain level of indifference to these respective turns of event, but I must confess confusion of my own; why he must continue to attempt to believe the best of the lady of the house is something that continues to elude me.

After receiving notice from Mrs. Hudson that things have escalated in London, Watson and I have boarded the train to London, accompanied by Lestrade, Lancelot, Lacey, and two officers to assist with the transportation. While Lacey is no longer in a position to be of harm to anyone but herself, we fear a change of heart from Lancelot, and prefer to take the necessary precautions.

Watson appears deeply troubled by this business, and I feel equally anxious to return to London. The news that has been forthcoming from Mrs. Hudson was most disturbing, and I can virtually feel the fretfulness on Lestrade as well. His professional air is kept tight, but it's certainly obvious that he is distressed.

Mrs. Hudson has informed me that she has taken in Mary Watson as well as Annie Lestrade and her children. I expect we'll all be glad when this business clears up. Needless to say, Watson will be returning home once we reach London; in these troubled times, I expect he will want to take his wife away, although he has not said so directly. I would support his decision, but I find myself sincerely hoping that he will elect to stay on at Baker Street with Mary. I would much rather have the ability to keep them within my sight.

I fear that the apparent "clearing up" of this case is but a false hope on our parts. While we may have solved one piece of the puzzle, the notes and messages that have apparently been left for me in my absence have troubled me. Not only was Lacey severely mentally disturbed, but her jealous brother was not entirely sane himself, vying for his inheritance. I would imagine that his reasons behind asking his sister to do the actual killing were ones that he would consider to be clever, although it did not ultimately conclude the way he had expected. There were too many factors at work in that house, and I shudder to think what I might have uncovered, had I elected to stay on.

In due course, I shall look forward to our arrival and separation from this past.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 23 June 1896.** _

What a joy it was to return home to Baker Street. Seeing my beautiful wife once more brought such warm feelings to my heart, and I cannot express how relieved I was to have her back in my arms once more. Just being able to see her face again was enough to pull me from the horrid nature of the past few days at the manor house.

There was an unmistakable air of relief from all of us. Indeed, I do believe that the joy of the Lestrades being reunited trumped even that of myself and my wife. They were certainly fervent to gather their little ones and return home. I had been aware of the fact that Mrs. Lestrade had been undergoing some rather difficult times in her husband's absence, but I had not realized just how much of a toll they had taken on her mental state. I could see that Lestrade himself was very worried about her, with her very pale face and her eyes looking more worn then they had at the time that we left. I believe that I speak for all of us when I say that I would wholeheartedly support Lestrade taking time away from the Yard in order to care for her and the children again.

Mrs. Hudson was relieved as well, and I could see that she had filled a motherly role in the lives of our women. For a woman who endures so much as our landlady, I can't express enough nearly enough thanks toward her for all that she does for us. When I spoke to her after the Lestrades had taken their leave, I told her so, and she just blushed as she always does and brushed off any attempt at a compliment. Holmes, on the other hand, simply looked from Mary to Mrs. Hudson with more of his old sly grin than I had seen in quite some time. He patted Mrs. Hudson on the shoulder as the son that he is, and simply retreated off to the flat upstairs, as though hiding some sort of secret.

For the moment, I shall leave all writing for the future. I wish to spend time with my wife, and I can see that she wishes the same. It has been so long, and she looks more beautiful than I have ever seen her, though I scarcely thought such a thing was possible.

* * *

**_The following is from the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 23 June 1896_ **

What can I say, other than the amount of relief that I'm experiencing at the return of my boys is so great that I cannot even begin to describe it. And, much as you'd expect, I am not alone in my relief. There is much joy in Baker Street at this time. As soon as Annie and her family left, and the good doctor and his wife retired, I allowed myself to relax fully for the first time in a very long time.

Truth be told, the period of time that they were away was not very long at all. Only in our minds, sadly. Still, a burden taken from one's mind is cause for celebration, no matter how long the burden has been placed there.

Still, I know in my heart that the danger is far from past. While we women may not have to feel the full load upon our shoulders at this time, the men in our extended family still must deal with the situation, and I fear that it will be just as worrying.

I have spent much of the afternoon cooking the menfolk a proper meal, for a fleeting comment from the doctor suggested that the food in the manor house was anything but nourishing. As I made my way upstairs to ask Mr. Holmes when he would prefer the meal to be served, I realised that he was not alone in the flat, and that the doctor was with him as well.

Of course, I didn't intend to pry into their conversation, but I found myself standing outside the door listening anyway, though I am ashamed to admit my curiosity.

But as I stood there, I overheard Mr. Holmes speaking to Dr. Watson regarding some of the consequences they have been forced to take on as a result of this case. It would appear that a young girl was taken to London to be given over to care for some serious health problems of the mind. Just hearing that was enough to break my heart, for I fear that she will not be given the care that she needs. I know just as well as Mr. Holmes and the doctor that being branded as a lunatic, as I fear that this child will, is all but a death sentence, and has been as far as I can remember. I considered interjecting and offering my own mind's solution when I became aware of the fact that the conversation had turned.

"You must be relieved to be home in Baker Street with your wife," Mr. Holmes remarked with something rather mischievous in his voice.

As I might have guessed, the doctor did not pick up on the unspoken message in his voice. "Naturally, Holmes. Whatever are you insinuating?"

I, of course, had caught onto the implied message straightaway, and I couldn't keep an audible reaction inside me. Mary had promised me that she would tell him about the child once the doctor returned to Baker Street. On the other hand, I daresay that she's going to be waiting for me to confront her about this, and that she will likely be dreading it. I do not understand the girl, and I do not like the fact that she is being so secretive towards her husband. Although, granted, I find it a bit odd that Mr. Holmes was able to see a woman with child while Dr. Watson, being a physician, did not. Well, she is only about four months gone, and I suppose his joy at seeing her trumped his observational skills, but I still find it odd. Perhaps he hasn't fully recovered from his illness.

In fact, I'm certain that he hasn't. While the doctor himself would surely tell me that I was reacting without enough evidence, I'm sure that I saw him leaning far too heavily on his cane for comfort. He's still in pain… perhaps that's why Mary doesn't want to burden him. But a child isn't a burden. Unless there is something that she hasn't told me.

I feel like such a fool fretting like this, worrying about so many things that I can't know unless I ask. At the end of the day, I must speak to the both of them, if only to save them from themselves. They are married, and therefore should be telling each other about these life-altering circumstances. I don't understand young people at times.

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector S. Bradstreet. Entry dated 24 June 1896.** _

With the serious medical condition of Gregson, and the apparently imminent leave of Lestrade, I have been ordered to take on the investigation regarding the Deramore case. I must say straight off that I find it incredibly excessive to have assigned this case to no less than three inspectors at this point. In this case, which seems so open and shut, why must they feel a need to continue the investigation?

The killer has confessed to that partner of Sherlock Holmes, and his accomplice is in the process of being admitted to Bedlam. The brother will hang, the sister will live out the rest of the days in the asylum. Or that would be what would happen if Sherlock Holmes wasn't insisting otherwise. Well, in the interest of clarity, I must make certain that it's clear that his objection is not to the incarceration of the two confessed killers. Rather, he seems to be laboring under the delusion that there is more to the case than meets the eye.

Well, judging from Lestrade's report, I wouldn't be at all opposed to seeing the mother behind bars, but that's simply a bonus at this point. She may have admitted to murder, but no action has been taken on that front. Why that is, I have no idea. The only thing that's clear is that the Yard knows exactly how they wish to handle this case, and her arrest simply doesn't come into that equation for reasons unknown. Or, reasons unspoken. I know that I speak for very nearly every officer in the Yard when I say that I wish Holmes would stop meddling in this official business.

I am scheduled to meet with Holmes and Dr. Watson to question the young lady at Bedlam in the morning. The doctor is completely against what has been decided, but it is also out of all of our control at the moment. Apparently she attacked more than one staff member at her initial admittance and has had to be kept restrained, often under sedation. I cannot say that this is a meeting that I particularly look forward to, by any means.


	15. Bedlam

**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 25 June 1896.**

When Holmes requested my presence at the meeting in Bedlam, I must confess to disinclination. This case, proving to be both mentally and physically taxing, concerns not only myself, but my wife. Mary was adamant about the fact that she did not wish me to leave the house, and only consented when Holmes himself spoke with her. Though I do not know what he told her, I found myself aggravated at this turn of events.

Since our return to London, only the afternoon last, a change in Mary's health became apparent to me. While I do believe that I know what her symptoms point to, she has not spoken to me regarding them. I cannot think why that would be, for such joyous news is surely not cause for secrecy. In any case, I will respect her wishes, and not speak of the child until she feels ready to tell me. Mrs. Hudson was most anxious for me to know that my wife was with child, but her concerns were unfounded; I am, indeed, a physician, and such a condition is nothing new to me. I must trust that my wife's reasons for silence are honorable, and I must wait for her to speak with me about it in her own time. I can only pray that time will be soon, for her obvious mental discomfort troubles me greatly.

Not wanting to leave Mary alone under the many circumstances that threaten us, I arranged for her to wait with Mrs. Lestrade, assuring them both that this would not take long.

Inspector Bradstreet of the Yard has taken over Gregson's aspect of the case, after the latter's unfortunate incidents as of late; it has not escaped our notice that we have been running through inspectors like they are so much rubbish. Why they bother to assign new inspectors anymore is beyond my powers of understanding, obviously.

Now that Toulson has essentially vanished, Gregson spoke tirelessly this morning of how he was so determined to track the man down. Holmes scoffed in Bradstreet's general direction at such an attitude, for I feel that he knows exactly where the man has gone, and that he had precious little to do with the initial murder, in any case. With the true murderer having been murdered herself, and her treacherously homicidal son safely awaiting his court date, one could consider the entire business to be behind us.

Apart from the fact that nothing is ever so simple when one is with Sherlock Holmes.

Why it is necessary for both myself and Holmes to visit Lacey at the institution, I honestly have no idea. With Lacey obviously highly mentally unstable, I doubt that she will be tried with the same vehemence as her brother. Odds are extremely good that she will be committed to Bedlam for the rest of her life, unless one of her remaining siblings deigns to do what they can to control her. And, from what I understand, such an outcome is extremely unlikely.

In the end, it's quite clear that Holmes seeks more knowledge for some burning question. What more there is to know, I am not certain, though that is perhaps due to the fact that my mental state begs a rest from this entire business; my curiosity is all but dead. But it is for Holmes that I have agreed to speak with Lacey.

As I write this, we have been on our way to the hospital, having first made a detour at the Yard to gain the presence of Lestrade. Bradstreet seemed a great deal more relaxed when it came to the presence of his senior than Gregson had. Indeed, he seemed quite willing to accept any help that was offered to him. Perhaps I am not the only one who does not see what further investigation there is to be had.

I must depart, for we have arrived at the hospital. It is a dismal-looking place on the outside; I shudder to think what we will see once we enter through its doors.

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 25 June 1896.** _

Prior to this visit, I'd been informed that the overall condition of the Bethlem Royal Hospital has improved vastly in recent years, following the Parliamentary investigations of 1815. And while I apparently have no reason to doubt my superiors, that knowledge wasn't helping me as I was forced to look upon Bedlam in all its glory.

I'd hoped that the Yard would allow me to take my leave as far as this assignment was concerned; after all, now that Bradstreet is on the case, there is no reason for both of us to attend. Annie agreed, but my superiors were having none of it, and demanded that I be present today. I could see that Holmes and the doctor were also surprised at my presence, though they did not press the question, knowing full well that there are always times when it is simply not worth the time required to question the lack of logic on the part of the Yard.

While I personally have not been given a case in recent memory that took me to Bedlam, it remains a place that was burned into my memory, all things considered. Anyone who has merely stepped foot inside the gate will remember the pitiful screams and angry cries of the poor wretches that are imprisoned within the walls of that horrible place. And frankly, the supposed cleanup of the general atmosphere of this place has yet to become obvious to me. While we may not see as many patients locked up in chains, their screams tell me that their minds are imprisoned every bit as much as their bodies would want to be.

As a party consisting of myself, Holmes and the doctor, we were forced to walk through the larger part of the institution in order to reach the room where Lacey resided. As a man who is accustomed to dealing with the dead and horrendous crimes, I am ashamed to say that Bedlam's interior was enough to turn my stomach to no end. All one has to do is close one's eyes, and the true stench of Bedlam will become enough to destroy a grown man.

While we were assured that all the patients would be in their respective rooms, this was not the case. Wailing and screaming was present wherever we went, and disconnected limbs of the unseen flailed about, as though begging for our attention and our help. Barred windows showed skin that was pale and wan, stretched tightly over ghosts of faces. As I walked past one open-doored room, a hand reached out and grabbed me by the ankle, causing me to stumble into Holmes as I tried to shake off the owner. One of the guards who had been escorting us glared angrily at my assailant, such as he was, and beat him back with his booted feet. Holmes spoke out in anger at the guard's actions, but even he was silenced by the incredibly lame excuse that our main guide offered.

"'e's no idee what 'e does, sirs," the man growled, looking distastefully back at the limp form on the floor. "Ye can't 'spect much from the likes of 'im Pay 'im no mind. 'e gets what 'e's got comin'. All there is to it."

There was a real look of anger on Holmes' face as he listened to this, and I saw him lean over to speak quietly to the doctor, who nodded in response. They exchanged their words under their breath, but the guide still looked aggravated in their general direction. It was obvious that he did not consider himself nor his guards to be in the wrong, no matter how ridiculous it sounded to the rest of us.

The rest of our journey through the hospital passed relatively uneventfully, or as uneventfully as you can expect in a place like that. While it felt like we'd been walking for ages, the hospital is not nearly that large, and we soon came to the room that we have been waiting for. The guide asked that we would wait in the hall while he ensured that "the patient" was ready for our arrival, but the good doctor was having none of that. He pushed past the guide and entered the room, nodding for Holmes and myself to follow behind him, insisting that he was already familiar with Lacey's case and that he was perfectly capable of dealing with this situation himself.

I found that I was extremely relieved when I closed the door behind us, assuring the guide that I would be quick to let him know of any trouble. As mad as Lacey often seemed, she was incredibly tame in comparison to the men and women that we had just seen. And for that we could all be eternally grateful.

The room felt more like a prison cell than anything else, though it was undoubtedly furnished like one might expect. The wrought-iron bed, the bedside table with a pitcher and a glass, the empty medicine cabinet all spoke of what had once been a sickbay. Lacey sat on the edge of the bed, looking as though she had not moved in many days. She simply stared at her hands that were folded in her lap, twisting the plain fabric of her Bedlam gown. A single rocking chair sat next to the bed, which the doctor took, for it was obvious that the general atmosphere of the place was making him entirely too shaky. He looked Lacey over with the practiced eye of the medical man, trying to gauge for himself how her condition had changed in the short while that she had been in this place.

She didn't look good. We had been informed that she was refusing to eat, which was more worrisome when one considered that she hadn't eaten at her home either. The starvation was beginning to show in her once-rosy cheeks, but at least she did not look as far gone as I had unconsciously been expecting. Dr. Watson took her hand in his, checking her pulse and looking into her eyes, before he looked at Holmes and nodded by way of saying that it was not as bad as we had feared. Now satisfied with her general condition, our energy shifted to focus on the real reason of our coming.

"Lacey," Dr. Watson said gently, trying to pull her attention from her dress. "Lacey, can you hear me?"

I wasn't surprised when she did not respond to his question, and neither was anyone else involved. Holmes was looking at her very intently, and I could practically smell his thoughts as he pieced things together in his mind. You certainly couldn't deny that he was good. He knew exactly what he was doing here.

"I think that it is quite plain that we've obtained the information that we came for," said Holmes in a moment, his face suddenly changing. "We can leave this place now."

"Is there any way that we can take her with us?" asked Dr. Watson, his hand still holding onto hers like a protective father now, rather than a physician. "You've seen what this place will do to her if she remains here."

"She will be a convicted criminal if she ever regains enough of her mind to be let out of this place," I said regretfully, feeling the need to reiterate what all of us already know. "She's all but confessed to that murder at her house. We have her brother's testimony for that, and we practically have a witness."

"But she never had enough of her mind to be outside of this place, as you put it," Holmes pointed out, a slight tinge of bitterness in his voice. "You know as well as I that was the reason she killed in the first place. Her brother took advantage of her fragile state."

"Well, what would happen to her if she left here?" Dr. Watson looked doubtfully from Holmes to myself. "Where would she go?"

"There's only one place that she could go. Home. That is, assuming that the remaining members of her family would be willing to put the work into caring for her." Holmes pursed his lips and stared down at the huddled, female form on the bed.

I had never seen Holmes wearing a look like that. It was obvious that he felt a sense of responsibility for her, and what happened to her. None of us had been happy that the girl had to come to London in the first place; it was obvious to all of us that the psychiatric testing would merely be a formality. But would her family be willing to care for her? It would surely not be an easy path.

"I will speak to them."

I'd not been expecting Holmes to come to that conclusion so quickly, but the words came out of nowhere, and his face had changed to an extremely determined look. He had gone from regret, to pondering, to a decision so quickly that I did not know how to respond. Neither did the doctor.

Nevertheless, Holmes was ready for this. "We will take her back to Baker Street with us. And I shall telephone the manor house this very afternoon to begin the conversation with her living relatives."

And with that, he was over at the bed, and helping Lacey stand, ignoring the fact that she still did not move or acknowledge any of us. His arms were under hers, supporting her, and he spoke gently to her, urging her to move forward and take a step. His patience was astounding as he waited, finally scooping her up in his arms and nodding for me to open the door. What else could I do but oblige him?

The guide was obviously astounded at Holmes' actions, and he protested vehemently until I flashed my badge at him, telling him that it was Scotland Yard business, and that everything would certainly be taken care of. He stared after us as we made the long trek back to the carriage outside the gates. And I must say that I echoed his expression of astonishment the entire way. Dr. Watson limped along behind us, obviously torn as to whether he should condone these actions or not. In any case, Holmes was not going to be convinced to give this up.

All I know is that I'm going to have a hell of a time explaining this to the Yard…

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 25 June 1896.** _

As we exited Bedlam, Holmes still determined to have his way with Lacey's future, I couldn't help but notice a pair of men sitting outside the gate, not very far from our carriage. I do not know what it was that caught my eye, but there was something extremely familiar about them.

Dressed as common beggars, one of the men hopped off his position on Bedlam's outer wall and opened the door of the carriage with a sweeping bow. "Allow me, sir," he said.

And that was when I understood: he and his companion were both American.


	16. Out with the Old

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 25 June 1896.** _

I had expected there to be a bit of a furor upon our arrival to Baker Street. Neither Mary nor Mrs. Hudson could be expected to be particularly overjoyed at the prospect of caring for what appeared to be a half-starved madwoman turned gutter rat at a moment's notice. But, the women were exceedingly gracious about the rather unexpected situation, and were able to bring Lacey into Baker Street with compassion and gentleness.

Lacey was as nonfunctional as ever as we led her from the trap outside into the flat, though we were all relieved to see that she was now able to walk under her own power. Her eyes continue to have such a glazed, haunted look that it is completely unnerving to try to look her in the eye. Gone is the bright young woman who greeted me at her mother's house with derision and wit, to be replaced with a hollow shell of a woman. It would appear that guilt and her own illness simply proved too much for her mind, it having undergone a massive trauma. Looking at her now, I cannot help but wonder if the damage will ever be reversed. I have little knowledge of such an area as the mind, for it is not among my specialties. But even I can see that it is better she not recover, lest she be tried and hanged for murder.

She had been committed to Bedlam permanently at the time of our visit, so the idea of an official psychiatric evaluation is not advised. This is one occasion during which a full recovery is a worst case scenario, and we do not wish her being readmitted to the hospital. If Holmes agrees, I will call in a professional with whom I am well acquainted so that we may settle this once and for all.

In the meantime, I have no idea what is running through my good friend's mind. Lacey will not be able to stay in Baker Street forever, and there has been no word from her family in the manor house. I must trust that Holmes knew what he was doing when he made the decision to take her away from Bedlam, but I do question his plan (or lack thereof).

Mrs. Hudson has taken her in like a mother hen; she, in any case, is overjoyed to have someone to look after who won't put up a fight. She's given her a wash, changed her dress and tucked her into bed with a cup of tea, and I must admit that Lacey looked infinitely better when I came upstairs to take her vitals once more before turning in myself. Mrs. Hudson did ask me if I knew anything regarding Holmes' plan, and I had to confess that I was completely in the dark, and not entirely happy out it. She laughed, no doubt wondering about the insanity of her permanent lodgers, let alone this temporary girl.

When I think about how much Mrs. Hudson has been through in the last few weeks with this case and the one before, I can only shake my head in amazement and shame. When this ordeal has come to a close, we will surely have to give her something special.

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 25 June 1896.** _

It is extremely late now, and I write this in the back of the trap on my way home from Baker Street. I have to admit to the fact that Holmes has me absolutely at my wit's end. I was as horrified at the conditions in Bedlam as the rest, but that doesn't give him any sort of leave to take the girl from the hospital without gaining permission from any of our superiors. Granted, I'm quite sure that Holmes is unaware that there are people who are superior in status to him, but nonetheless…

Still, I was glad to hear that Holmes wasn't as mad as I'd thought, doing such a deed without even attempting to cover his tracks. Upon our arrival at Baker Street, once the girl had been swept away by the women, Holmes had marched straight to the telephone and placed a call. From what I heard of our end of the conversation, his brother was most irked at the young Holmes' actions, but was willing to operate a cover for the operation until a plan had been put together. I'm sure that Holmes didn't have a plan at the time, but he now speaks as though he has one. I certainly hope that's the case. I'm exhausted just thinking about bringing this kind of news back to the Yard.

"Don't worry about speaking to the Chief Inspector," said Holmes, and the twinkling look in his eyes did not do much to help my mood. "My brother Mycroft will have taken care of such things before you next arrive in the office. No need for you to file a report."

"Of course I need to file a report," I snapped back, and felt weariness attempting to settle over my bones, ignoring the fact that I needed to be able to focus on the situation at hand. "It's part of my job."

"Nevertheless, I would not worry about it at all. You'll see that my brother is very skilled at such matters as this."

Matters such as cleaning up the messes of his younger brother. I certainly hope that Holmes is right. I know that I would never be patient enough to deal with such things as this. I have no patience left. I worry about Annie and the children, and would very much like to be home so that I can be sure they are safe after everything that they've been through. Luckily Holmes was able to sense my discontent and told me to scuttle off home, and I was only too happy to oblige in the end. Anything to get rid of the sense of guilt that's settled over my chest.

I will say that before I left the flat, I did notice something peculiar as the doctor wished me good night on my way out. He had told us all that he'd recovered fully from the poisoning incident, but I swore I saw him stumble and nearly collapse as I left. He would never admit it, and I would never betray his privacy, but I can't help but worry. I did speak quietly to Mrs. Watson before I left regarding what I'd seen.

* * *

_**From the private records of Colonel Sebastian L. Moran. Entry dated 26 June 1896. Found in a desk drawer late in the December 1896.** _

My dear Colonel,

I had intended for you to receive my letter with the dancing men after you too delivery of this letter. But, I daresay that that part of my plan will not succeed. Perhaps this was due to the stupidity of my messenger. I will deal with him later, I suppose. For a deed that he has that he has not yet committed. Thus is the price that one must pay to be in my service, I suppose. The little one will learn soon enough, though I daresay that my punishments in advance of the deed will not stop him from bumbling the entire deed.

Now that you have undoubtedly puzzled over my dancing, you are more than likely confused and frustrated. Colonel Sebastian Moran, ever the man of action, but a man who does not stop to think. Dare I say, a man who is unable to think if the circumstances do not promise the use of a gun

I do not intend for you to know what the pages of the dancing men mean. It is not necessary. However, if you, by some unfathomable chance, manage to crack the code, then by all means. Read it.

Trusting the living with posthumous orders on my behalf is a trying lot for my patience to handle. As much as I would like to think that all will go to plan, I cannot assume anything. It warms my heart to think that you are able to carry out these orders, for only you can fully appreciate just how important this matter truly is.

My messengers were instructed not to send any of these letters until you had done the deed with the doctor. I certainly hope that you listened to my instructions and did not kill him, for that time has not yet come, and will not come for quite some time. The dosage of pure nicotine that I decided upon was advised by an expert in the field of toxicology, and I am assured that it will prolong the suffering for as long as we need. I trust that your disguise in order to plant the substance was well chosen, though I cannot imagine that it was. You always were one for foolish escapades, and I can only imagine the kind of scheme you would attempt, breaking in and doing what you will with whomever you might find. Holmes will surely be alerted to our presence, and know that I am displeased.

It is a token of our friendship, Colonel, that I still know what it is that you will be attempting even before you know of this task. Luckily for us, my predictions will surely help us to plan for your failure, rather than planning alternate methods and confusing the matter.

You have received your instructions, and I trust that they were understood. My people are watching, and you will receive your next instructions when the time is right and your task has been done.

I remain, Colonel, ever faithfully yours,

Professor James Moriarty.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Mrs. Mary Watson. Entry dated 26 June 1896.** _

I don't think that my physician husband quite understands the logistics of a situation like this; bringing home a starved young woman is not quite the same as bringing home a starved kitten. I'm always very happy to help John with his work, and I must say that I'm used to having odd patients knocking at our front door at any hour of the day or night. John is often too kind and gives out our home address as well as that of the practice.

Still, I was much concerned at the condition of the young woman in question, and was very determined to do what I could to help her, little as that was. Mrs. Hudson looked at me as though I was trying to hand her a dead puppy when I offered to run and fetch some supplies to care for the girl. "Someone in your condition has no business fetching and carrying," she scolded. "And I believe that you have an important conversation to have with your husband."

I knew that she was right, of course. I wasn't doing anyone a good deed, trying to keep the baby a secret from John. But that didn't stop me from worrying. He's been in such a dreadful mess lately, and I could see that, despite his assurances to the contrary, he was not yet well. When Inspector Lestrade was leaving the house, he told me as much, and I was most disconcerted to see that he echoed my same concerns.

It truly was time for both of us to have the conversations that we'd been more or less avoiding since his arrival back in Baker Street. I knew that he would want to check on Lacey's condition before bed, so I decided that I would wait up for him in the hope that we would be able to speak undisturbed.

I sat in his former bedroom waiting, trying to squash the feeling of dread. I was feeling distinctly unwell, and while I hoped that was entirely because of the baby, I knew that there was also worry for John's condition. A doctor truly does make a terrible patient, and John had proved that time and time again. Even Mr. Holmes had noticed to the extent of going so far as to speak of it. John never likes that kind of attention, but there are times that one of us simply has to speak up or he will surely drive himself into the ground.

When he finally came to bed, I could see that he was letting down his mask to reveal just how pale he really was. Exhaustion was evident, and he was leaning far too greatly on his cane. I was frankly surprised that he was this willing to let me see just how ill he appeared, and that alone frightened me. I gently motioned for him to come and sit on the bed with me, and he did so without any complaint. I loosened his necktie and helped him off with his jacket before I spoke.

"Darling, you still look dreadful. You shouldn't have gone out today, least of all to a place like Bethlem."

He chuckled wearily at my words and let his cane drop from his fingers to clatter on the floor. "I know, my precious. There was nothing to be done. I'm all right. Tired."

"I can see that." I paused, knowing that I really had to tell him the news, despite the fact I didn't want my condition to be weighing on his mind. He was sure to worry. Telling him that his health was far worse than mine was not going to help. "John… I have something to tell you."

He looked straight in my eyes now, and kissed me on the forehead. "I know."

"You know?" I wasn't sure exactly why I was surprised.

"I'm a doctor, Mary. Of course I know. Why didn't you tell me?"

I couldn't look at him, but that wasn't going to stop him from turning my chin to face his gaze. "I didn't want you to worry," I said softly. "You're still ill, even if you don't want anyone else to know. For something like this to be weighing on your mind…"

"Mary, this is a child that you speak of. Our child. Of course I'm going to worry. That's my job as a father. But that doesn't mean that I'm not completely in love with you and far beyond happy about this." He pulled me close to him, and I fell into his arms. "This is our child. We're going to be parents."

"Parents," I echoed, and I knew that I'd made a mistake in waiting for so long. "Does anyone else know?"

"I'm fairly certain that Holmes knew before even I did. And Mrs. Hudson has been dropping me hint after hint since our return home. I wonder if Lestrade is the only one who doesn't know."

"He will know soon," I said with a smile. "Annie will tell him."

He laughed again, running his fingers through my hair. "Then, Mrs. Watson, I trust that you're ready to become a mother. And don't worry about anything. No matter what happens, I will be here with you. I love you."


	17. Crooked Arrow

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 27 June 1896.** _

Mary was not remiss in her suggestion that my health has rapidly been declining as of late; it pains me to admit it, even to myself. Our return to Baker Street has been quiet, and yet tense. There is a constant reminder of the fact that the Deramore business has been effectively cleared up, though the constant presence of the young lady in our flat does not help the atmosphere.

Holmes has seemed increasingly distant these past few days; there is something in his manner that is far removed from his normal post-case melancholy. He has repeatedly promised that he will ensure Lacey's departure to a good home as soon as possible, but he refuses to comment on the situation further. The pieces continue to add up in our lives, from the prior attack on Mrs. Hudson to the incapacitation of Inspector Gregson. Whether or not these circumstances are related, I find myself increasingly vexed at the feeling in the air around me.

Lacey's presence in combination with Mary's condition ensures that Mrs. Hudson remains ever on edge and at the ready. I sometimes find myself wondering about her past, particularly when I see her acting in this manner. She would have been a very loving mother, should she have ever had children of her own. But I digress on manners that do not concern me, and must bring myself back to the point of my musings.

Wishing for me to have some respite from the domineering women and the withdrawn Holmes, Lestrade came 'round to call and invite me to accompany him down to the pub after his work day had concluded. I was happy to agree, and we set off together to enjoy a brief spell away from our respective lives.

Little was said on our walk from the flat to the pub down the corner. My incapability to walk quickly slowed us down more than I would have liked, but Lestrade, ever the gentleman, didn't seem to mind. I could see that he was more focused on shedding the layers of tightness from his mind than he was getting to his beer. It occurred to me that such a realization spoke volumes about how his career has been as of late, but I chose not to dwell on it if the inspector had no desire to bring it up verbally.

I had anticipated our going to a pub closer to home, and I do believe that Lestrade had as well, at least when he had initially called at Baker Street. However, he apparently changed his mind after a number of blocks, and instead hailed a hansom to take us to another destination. I looked questioningly at him, but he simply shrugged wearily and we went on our way.

I was relieved to discover that he'd alternately decided that we would be drinking at the Crooked Arrow, an establishment we'd used to frequent along with several of Lestrade's fellow inspectors. It had been many months since our last visit, and as I climbed from the hansom, I found myself trying to remember why that had been.

It wasn't long before I remembered exactly why.

Lestrade wasn't quite as fazed, as he generously took me by the arm as my knee threatened to buckle in a manner unrelated to the situation at hand. I was relieved once I'd made my way to a chair and was able to sit down as Lestrade went off to retrieve drinks.

It wasn't difficult to see why we'd chosen to take our business elsewhere all those months ago. Every pub went through periods of time with different crowds, but after a certain number of ruffians had chosen to claim Crooked Arrow as their territory, we'd opted to be the ones to leave. At the moment, the crowd inside the darkened room wasn't particularly reassuring, but not violently drunk either. By the time Lestrade had returned with our pints, I found myself wondering why he had chosen to come back here when he knew the kind of criminal mentalities that now enjoyed the odd pint.

"Nostalgia," he said, by way of explanation as he plunked the glasses on the dirty table. "Some of the old feeling of enjoyment when the rest of the world is so unpredictable."

That was something I could understand and even appreciate as I used my pint to drown out the drunken shouts around me. "It's a bit loud for my taste," I said mildly, though I could see that Lestrade understood what I meant.

We enjoyed the opportunity to simply drink and natter on about nothing in particular. Though he chose not to speak of it, I could see that his worry for his family had been preying on his mind, and I was only too happy to forget my own troubles in order to help him forget his own. As I drew near to the bottom of my glass, my eyes wandered from my companion to the dim room around me. It was difficult to make out any specific shapes in the gloom, but something in particular caught my eye, and gave me pause as I strained my eyes to see closer.

Even now, I'm surprised that I hadn't noticed this particular character sooner. He was rather difficult to miss, given that he was sitting in a table crosswise to ours, so that Lestrade had his back to the man, but he was almost directly in my line of sight. He was an elderly man, with a thin, projecting nose, a high, bald forehead, and a huge grizzled moustache. I had a distinct feeling that I'd seen the man before, though couldn't initially place him before realization dawned upon me and my jaw fell open in astonishment. The man had apparently been trying to catch my eye before this point, and I had seemingly missed it entirely. Now, he nodded for me to join him at his table, and my curiosity made it so I had no choice in the matter.

Lestrade seemed distant as I got to my feet, but he still noticed that I was in motion. He looked behind to see where I was going, and he was on his feet in a second when he too realized who the man was. But the man looked scathingly at him, and gruffed out that he should remain where he was. I nodded to Lestrade and put my hand on his reassuringly, though the inspector didn't look impressed. As I sat across from the man, I set my cane aside and folded my hands accordingly.

"Colonel Moran."

"Major Watson."

I found it curious that he chose to use my generally honorary rank; assistant surgeon only meant so much during my army days. Still, it was beside the point, and I was more determined to find out why he was here than anything else at the time.

Lestrade coughed behind me, but we both chose to ignore him as the colonel lifted his hand to summon another drink for the both of us. We didn't speak until the drinks were sat before us, and he took a deep breath and an equally deep draught of beer before he made any movement.

"I find myself wondering what you're doing out in public," I said amiably, being somewhat more sparing with my sip. "As your escape from prison was never officially sanctioned."

Colonel Moran had deteriorated greatly since I'd last seen him. A man formerly dressed to perfection, a testament to his regiment and his hunter prowess, he was now dressed in a ragged, patched overcoat and equally shabby hat that covered his eyes. But the hunger in his eyes that I remembered so deeply from our previous encounter hadn't changed. If anything, it had only increased. This wasn't something that I was particularly pleased to see.

"It's purely by chance that I happened to have met you here," he said, his voice slick. "I didn't think that gentlemen such as yourselves would come to such a place. Which is the very reason I enjoy such an establishment. I am at home with the rest of my criminal class."

"I have no doubt." I swirled beer around in my glass, suddenly afraid of the idea of becoming intoxicated under the circumstances.

"I hope that you've recovered from your unfortunate incident," he commented as though speaking about the weather. "I believe that the official diagnosis was nicotine poisoning? And do send my regards to your dear landlady. So unfortunate. Such a kind lady."

He must have noticed that my fingers were starting to tense around the cane that had found its way to my hand, for he chuckled softly. "Do go on, sir," I said, licking my lips against a feeling in my gut.

"Professor Moriarty sends his love from beyond the grave, and begs your pardon that he can't be here personally." Moran took another swig.

"Why are you here?"

He shrugged. "I'm here on a commission from our late professor. And I'm giving you a chance to know what's going on. Holmes has had his fun with the Deramores, but it's time that fun went. I've been left with a job, and I'm going to do it. You understand that need to follow orders, I'm sure. But I want you to be the first to know. Your dear friend is distant for a reason, Dr. Watson. And it's only going to get worse. I have orders to bring back his head, as it were."

I felt my breath catch in my throat. "Why are you telling me this? Why not just go about your business as usual and not risk it?"

"Because. I'm going to enjoy watching you try to stop me. And try you will. But you aren't going to stop me. Holmes isn't going to stop me. Scotland Yard isn't going to stop me. None of you will have a chance. And I'm going to enjoy making all of you dance." He paused and leaned over towards Lestrade's tense form. "And I'm going to do it well, whether I'm in a cell or in the wilds of London."

And with that, he got to his feet, swinging what resembled tails of his worn jacket as though the coat was a fine opera cape. "Doctor. Inspector." He nodded at each of us in turn, for Lestrade had turned to face him now. Then he was gone, and I was left with a white-knuckled death grip on my cane and a feeling of dread in my stomach.

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 27 June 1896.** _

Neither of us would ever have imagined that we'd meet Colonel Sebastian Moran at the Crooked Arrow. Neither of us would have imagined that I'd be inclined to let him go after our meeting… I pray that was the correct decision. In any case, I had little choice in the matter, as Moran knows his task very well. The doctor and I puzzled over the meaning of his little speech as we made our rushed way back to Baker Street to speak to Mr. Holmes about what had just happened.

We were both shaken by the experience, but it was the doctor who appeared outwardly so, and it didn't escape me that he was only shaken because I'd chosen to take him out of the way like that. Not a pleasant experience, even with a splash of nostalgia in the mix here.

I shouldn't have been surprised that Holmes seemed somewhat less than concerned with the news of the meeting. He sat in his favorite chair in the flat, smoking away at a pipe as though hoping that this would become a case akin to his normal enjoyment. I was extremely frustrated with him, and even now that it's over, I still feel that annoyance.

"This is a death threat, Holmes," Dr. Watson said, having collapsed into a chair of his own and looking white and pensive. "Aren't you going to take this seriously in the least?"

"I have other things on my mind," he said evasively. "I've been threatened with death by this man before, you'll recall."

"Just because he failed with that threat last time doesn't mean that he will fail this time," I felt the need to point out to him. We both should have seen this reaction coming, really. "Is this something you really want to risk by ignoring it simply because you seem to find it dull and below your abilities?"

"I have found a place for Lacey to stay until she recovers," he said, taking another draw on his pipe. "Her family isn't equipped to deal with this kind of thing until she has her mind back under her. She shall leave this afternoon, and I hope that you'll accompany her, Lestrade. The address is not far from the Yard, so you'll be able to watch over if such a thing appeals to you."

So frustrated was I with this entire situation, I realized that it was impossible to try to pursue any line of thought here. I looked over at the doctor, and threw my hands up into the air. There was a great amount of worry on his face, but he got to his feet and followed me out the door. And as my head ventured back a moment, I realized that Holmes was removing a hastily-thrown pillow from an open box on the table next to his chair…

Mrs. Hudson had been told that Lacey was leaving, and the girl was ready to go when the doctor and I made our way back downstairs. I could see that everyone involved, myself included, was relieved to have her move on to another place. There was only so much that we could do for a shattered woman in Baker Street. She seemed incapable of understanding what was happened as we led her out front to the Yard carriage that I'd summoned.

The family that she'll be staying with should be very good for her, and I intend to check in on her periodically to make sure that she's being treated well. The child has had a difficult enough life, and doesn't deserve to be mistreated yet again.

And I have no intention of ignoring the threats facing Mr. Holmes, no matter how he feels about this. It's more serious than he will give it credit for.


	18. Chapter 18

_**The following is from the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 29 June 1896** _

I had rather hoped that the house would quiet down with the absence of the young lady we'd been caring for. Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to be the case.

The doctor and his wife have requested permission to remain at Baker Street for a time yet; their health ensures they are unable to continue their work at his practice, and I know that Mr. Holmes prefers to be able to keep a close eye on them for the moment. Mary is only about 3 months gone at the moment, so there will be much time before the child arrives, but I can only imagine that she's relieved at the chance to remain in our care. The good doctor is being very stubborn about his physical condition, but sooner or later he will have to face the fact that he is not deceiving any of us.

Mr. Holmes has been very far removed over these past few days. I can only assume that he is going through his normal withdrawal after a case (for I believe that their last case at the manor house has been brought to a close), but I still worry about him. Something is strange in the air of the house, and I'm not certain that I can approve of it.

In the meantime, all I can do now is try to keep the house running smoothly. Although that is turning out to be rather difficult, what with the homeless boys constantly underfoot, making a mess of everything. I don't know if Mr. Holmes has given them things to do, but I do know that I haven't been able to keep any biscuits in the house for weeks now. I'd hoped that the constant stream of little boys would stop with the return of the men form the manor house, but I swear that it's only gotten worse. I must remember to speak to Mr. Holmes about it, if I can catch him in the right mood.

Little Davey Wiggins continues to be the leader of their band, though I can hardly call him little any longer. He's growing into quite a fine young man, and it does my heart good to see him. He's been raised well in the company of Mr. Holmes, and he's the most polite boy that I've ever seen, perhaps even more so than the fine men one comes across on the streets of London. I always make sure that I have a cup of tea ready for him and a plate of biscuits.

For all that the little ones under my feet can be aggravating, I do love them all. Mr. Holmes does a good deed by taking them under his wings and making sure that they are alright, bless him. It reminds me a great deal of when my husband was alive…

But I hear a knocking at the door, and the sound of little feet running outside, so I must fly and let them in.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 29 June 1896.** _

Although I cannot pretend to be as restless as Holmes, I must confess that I am experiencing a great deal of tiredness at the stagnation we are currently experiencing. My leg has prevented me on following any leads with the cases we have experienced thus far; I'm not altogether convinced that we have any open cases at the moment, apart from the obvious threats from Colonel Moran.

Inspector Hopkins has been released from hospital into the care of his wife, and I am expected to call round to visit shortly, to assess what damage has been done. From what I have been told, the doctors came to a conclusion that it really was an overdose of cocaine that had laid him low. I must confess a certain amount of shock at that news, since I never would have thought the inspector to be one to use such a substance as that so liberally. But I assume that it is simply not my place to judge. Something foul has been afoot, and there's not much that I can guess from a simple glance.

Mary is very tired much of the time, and experiencing the pains and discomfort that one can only expect from the trials of bearing a child. I am glad that we made the decision to remain in Baker Street, for I feel that it is the safest place for her at the moment. Mrs. Hudson will ensure that she rests well, if absolutely nothing else.

I myself find that I wish I had the ability to reopen my practice; I am greatly unhappy thinking of the regular clients who have been turned away since the beginning of this case, but Mary forbids me to return until she deems me more fully recovered. Speaking in my professional capacity, I know that she is right, and that it would be imprudent to push myself too far at this stage in the game. But speaking as myself, and as an army man, I find that my own mind rebels at the torpor that we're experiencing at the moment. If only Holmes would be able to track down a new case for us to sink our teeth into.

But alas, I fear that will not be the case any time soon. Holmes is even more frustrated than normal, and you can see just how far gone his mind has been traveling since we brought Lacey back to stay at Baker Street. He seems unable to care, unable to even look for another case. But I suppose the fact that we have not had any new callers come round in several days is not helping the matter; I know how he detests searching for cases in the papers.

I have no proof, for he has been very clever at trying to hide it from me, but I fear that Holmes has been reverting back to some of his former habits regarding the syringe. His behavior strongly reeks of his preferred seven percent solution of cocaine, and I suspect that morphine has been playing a role as well. It disturbs me greatly, for all the hours that he has spent up in the flat alone behind locked doors… it does not bode well for anyone.

Perhaps it is a good thing that we stayed in Baker Street after all. Not for our sakes, but for the sake of Holmes. I worry about him.

It is the locked door that worries me the most. It is the locked door that prevents me from getting through to him. Who knows what goes on behind it? I can only imagine and shudder to think.

In the meantime, I know that I must be able to find something to do that will keep me busy until certain members of the household are willing to let me see to them. Bandaging bloody knees of children appears to be that lot at the moment. They are the only ones that Holmes has been allowing up in his room, and I know they are bringing him some form of report, for they never remain up there long before they are sent back downstairs and the door locked soundly behind them.

Mrs. Hudson remains utterly charmed by them, but I do not think she understands the significance of their presence in the house. They know something that I do not, and that causes me no end of irritation. But Holmes has trained them well, and it would take the full power of the Spanish Inquisition to get them to talk about what news they bring, I fear. Holmes will be very proud once he comes unto his senses again.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Colonel Sebastian Moran. Entry dated 30 June 1896.** _

It has been my great privilege to observe the great professor's plan at work. How I find myself wishing that he could be here to see the glory unfold, but alas, it was not meant to be. I must rest myself in the knowledge that I am doing everything I can to ensure that his vision is fast turned into reality.

I was quite taken aback to discover that the Camden House that rests across the way from 221B Baker Street has remained empty since my untimely arrest. I would have thought Mr. Holmes had learned his lesson, but in retrospect, perhaps there was nothing he was able to do about the situation. In any case, it is most fortuitous for me, for it allows me to take up watch and keep an eye on Mr. Holmes and just how everything is unfolding.

During these surveys, I have been delighted to see that my prey has been performing in exactly the way that I would have hoped. In fact, it is far better than I ever would have dared hope previously. Fate has smiled upon me here, truly.

When I position myself at just the right angle, I am invisible behind the tattered remains of red curtain that hand before the window. I can see right across the way, and observe the window into the flat. Oftentimes, the curtains are drawn, even during the day, so my vigils are usually best served at night so that I can observe the shadows from the lamplight. Silhouettes and shadows tell me what I need to know, so that I can tell exactly where my quarry resides.

One thing has been made perfectly clear from my observations, and that is the fact that Holmes has hardly left his flat in several days now. In fact, I'm not entirely certain he's gone to bed since the day that I sent my message with the doctor. That is something that I am not accustomed to seeing, for I have never read Holmes as a particularly sentimental type, or one who is quite that given to his emotions. The only thing that is clear is that he's been both restless and motionless, and his mental state is one that is surprising to me. I cannot tell what is meant by this.

The professor told me that the great detective is a man of stone, a machine without emotion or care for anyone or anything. And, when I consider the broad scope, that has always been my experience. But now I am seeing something entirely different. I recall that around the time of my arrest, I was fooled by a bust disguised to look like my quarry, and it is something that I have never been able to reconcile myself with. But I am certain that this truly is Holmes, simply because of the frequent motion. I must wonder what in the world is going on.

Something is wrong. I cannot identify what it is, but I know that the danger is real. It will not do for Holmes to destroy himself before I have had the chance to work the magic of the professor. I had hoped to wait a bit longer before putting the next part of the plan in motion, but I fear that if I do, it will be too late. I'm sure that the professor would understand the need to fit the plan to the current situation and circumstances. It's all I'll be able to do.

I am slightly uneasy at this turn of events, but I am certain that I will be able to find an excellent way of altering things to suit what's going on at the moment. The mission must move on. I must off to hunt. The scent of blood keeps me moving forward.

As I write this, I find myself caught up in the appreciation of the tiger skin that lies upon my floor. It reminds me of my current goal, and reminds me that I am in need of motion. I must complete my goal, or there will truly be nothing left for me. And that is the note that leads me into battle. Holmes has made his move (or failed to, in any case), and it is my turn to take the helm. May the best man win.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 29 June 1896.** _

I fear that Mrs. Hudson has become lax in who she lets into the house, what with the constant presence of the homeless network. Just this very afternoon, I came across a particularly frightening young man, who was definitely one that I'd never seen before. Yet, he insisted that he was a colleague of Holmes, and asked very eagerly to be let upstairs to deliver his report. Naturally, Mrs. Hudson let him go up to do just that, though I only saw the back of him as he ascended.

I don't know why this particular man seemed to rub me the wrong way without having spoken a word, but I felt the need to go and chide Mrs. Hudson for her apparent lack of judgment. One thing speaks to me and tells me that Holmes is in a delicate situation at the moment, whatever it is that he seems to have planned. Assuming there is even a plan to this, for it is a logic that I am repeatedly failing to see.

In any case, I recognize the need to be a bit more cautious than letting any grown man into the house who claims to know our friend. Perhaps I should not worry, but the death threats of the colonel still hang heavy over my head, and I am not in the mood to have any unnecessary chances taken.

I would much rather be mistaken and safe than overly careless and facing death or worse. Whether Holmes chooses to agree with me or not is irrelevant at the moment, I fear. At the risk of sounding cliché, I daresay that we must save him from himself if he insists on continuing in this fashion. I dislike having to treat him as though he is a child, but I am seeing no alternative eat the moment, unfortunately. And tis his own fault for acting in this manner.

I fear that this feeling of unease is going to continue for a time, at least until we have further proof of someone making a move. That is not a particularly encouraging thought at this time.

 


	19. Urgent Telegram

 

 

_**From the personal diary of Mr. Ken Higgins. Entry dated 2 July 1896.** _

This very morning I was found by this strange man with his hat pulled down over his eyes so I couldn't see his face. I don't know who he thought he was but he sure thought that I was just the kind of man for the job he was wanting someone for. Offered me a full day's wages to take a funny little package he had in his hands and deliver it to a Mr. Sherlock Olmes who lives in Baker Street.

Now I thought that was an odd request and I didn't well like that he was treating me like a common street rat. I make a respectable living with my cart I do. But I knew I could get my boy Jimmy to watch the cart while I make the delivery, so what else could I say but of course I was going to do it when he asked me? Package was all lumpy and covered in burlap but it was light enough and I didn't think the journey would be all that long. And I was right.

I also didn't like that he decided he wanted to follow me when I made the delivery. I think he thought he couldn't trust me, and that was an insult to me, I can tell you. But again full day's wages for a little trip a few streets over with a package and a strange man in a cloak? I couldn't well say no to something like that.

I had very direct instructions for when I was to enter the flat and what I was to do. The landlady who opened the door didn't seem well pleased at the idea of me going upstairs, but I had to insist that my orders were to deliver it straight into the hands of the man of the house or not deliver it at all. Took a while, but she finally let me upstairs. I looked at the strange man, and he looked very excited as he kept moving his hands about to tell me to keep going. Lucky for him the landlady didn't see him making such a bloody fuss. My goodness.

Man had told me that the man upstairs probably wouldn't accept the package into his hands, and the man was right about that. Very hoity toity man up there, not wanting anything to do with anything. Just sat in his chair and smoked. So I opened the package like I was told and put the bottles inside into the desk drawer.

But the man in the room wasn't as still as I thought he was going to be, and he wanted to know what I was doing in his drawer. Very angry with me, he was. I didn't know what to say since the man in the cloak didn't tell me what to do if I got caught. The man took my bottles out of the drawer and set them on the desk, still looking at me like he thought I was there to kill him. But then he let me go, and I scarpered out of there, I can tell you.

I thought the man in the cloak would be angry that I got caught, but he seemed pretty happy about it for some reason. He gave me my money and then he left me right there in the middle of the street. Lucky for him I was able to make a full wages at my cart or he would have been in a right amount of trouble with my lady.

Those old gentlemen, think they own the world and they own me. Well they're wrong, aren't they, and they're going to figure that out sooner or later. Taking advantage of me just to do their dirty work, I never… When my wife hears about this, she'll definitely be wanting a word.

But the missus seems very busy with our young lady. I wasn't excited about taking her in in the first place, but the missus insisted that we do our Christian duty and make sure that she is well cared for in these days. Isn't difficult. She's certainly quiet, if nothing else. Missus says that I must be compassionate. Says this young lady has been through a great deal in her lifetime, more than I ever would want to think about, and that I'd want the same kind of care if I was going through that kind of thing.

Although I'm not sure if that's true. But me not being a woman probably has something to do with that, I expect. Still, I am trying to be a good man. And I don't mind having the extra company.

But I think that now the missus understands that something's going to happen, for she wants me to off and send a telegram now. As if I don't have enough to do, this young lady's gone and made things a hell of a lot more difficult for all of us.

* * *

_**The following is a telegram sent by a Mr. Ken Higgins on the 2 of July 1896.** _

_Mr. August Deramore_

_Care Somerton House, Deramore Residence_

_Sir, must inform you of death of Lacey Deramore, resident of our home. Send condolences and inquire about funeral arrangements._

_Higgins_

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Mrs. Mary Watson. Entry dated 4 July 1896.** _

Although I am indeed glad of our continued existence in Baker Street, I'm finding myself increasingly restless and unsure of what to do with myself. Mrs. Hudson insists that my condition makes it improper and unwise of me to do any work around the house more strenuous than needlework, but I have mended all of John's clothes that needed mending as well as many that didn't, and I find that I desperately need another task. I must remember to speak to John and request that he tell her that I am not as much as a delicate flower as she seems to believe.

I cannot, for the life of me, determine whether or not John is happy about being here. I can see that he frets over Mr. Holmes' isolation, and that is something that I do not blame him for. I too worry about him, and am unsure of the best way to handle things. John assures me that we must leave him to his own devices for the moment, but I am not entirely certain that is the best way forward.

I feel that I must work a bit harder to convince Mr. Holmes to come down from that perch he calls a flat and rejoin the living; such isolation and substance are not healthy for anyone. He must realize that. Tis another example for Mrs. Hudson that I am not completely useless in my condition. Why else would I have married the man that I did?

* * *

_**Passage taken from the notebook of myself, Sherlock Holmes, reporting only the facts as they appeared in the hope that it will illuminate the reader. Dated 4 July 1896.** _

The good Mrs. Watson's insistence that my health by established and maintained is something that I find increasingly irksome.

That being said, she came up into the flat today with the express intention of making certain that my health was in order, both mentally and physically. For all that I realize she does not understand what this sort of stagnation does to a body, I found that I was quite touched by her concern. I see so much of Watson inside of her sometimes, and it is quite a sight to behold when I understand what's going on.

Mrs. Hudson brought up a tray with soup and tea, apparently not wanting Mrs. Watson to carry it on her own, something that I overheard the both of them bickering about for quite some time. In spite of everything else, I found that bickering most amusing.

I deemed it necessary to consume the meal that was brought to me, if only to quench the insistence of the women who brought it me. Mrs. Hudson left immediately at my request, but I allowed Mrs. Watson to stay with me as I ate, something she seemed very pleased about. She remained at my side, silent and calm, as I ate, and took the dishes away once I'd finished. She seemed determined to prove to me that I would feel better with a proper meal, and that everyone was worried about me, though I couldn't quite understand where she was going with such a notion as that. Still, I think that my behavior was something she found pleasing.

She made me promise that I would not lock the good doctor out of the flat for extended periods of time, saying that my locking before had caused him to worry. Why this was, I cannot say, but it was never my intention to cause anyone to worry. I do not know why they would. Still, if such a simple thing as unlocking will prompt the reaction that I want, giving up percentages of my solitude will very likely be worth it, as they say.

I will assume that the concern is warranted, and that makes it all the more interesting to me.

In any case, all I want at the moment is a case. It is something that I need to take my mind off of the dreadful events of the past few weeks. I need something to scrub my mind clean. Even the solution of cocaine doesn't appear to be working the way that I want… that is something that has happened only over the past few days, and I cannot identify what is going on. Perhaps it is like Watson says and addiction leads to suffering that only the drug can relieve?

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 6 July 1896.** _

I am relieved that Holmes has begun unlocking his door again, and giving us all a chance to breathe a bit easier when it comes to his mental condition. He seems to have found a case that is at least partially to his liking, and we have the pleasure of being in his presence when his mood improves.

Well, I say that his mood has improved, but I do wish that I'd be speaking the truth when I say that. That isn't to say that he remains in the same state of dejection and misery; he has cheered up considerably if you take that much into account. But I daresay that a man who saw him on the street without any prior knowledge of my dear friend would consider it to be a black, melancholy mood indeed.

Still, I enjoy the fact that I am now able to sit with him in the room, settled comfortably in my armchair, and read the paper as I did in the days when I still lived at home with him. There is a sense of normalcy now in the room, and I feel that it does us both a world of good, even if Holmes seems loathe to admit it at this moment in time. But tis the beauty of our post-case life.

He says that the work he is doing now is mediocre at best, but it is something that has caught his interest. Something that an illustrious client has given him, or at least something that he considers to be an important task. Whether or not he considers the client to be important seems open to interpretation, I fear. But that is nothing unusual, as we are all painfully aware of.

Mary too is glad of the fact that I've had my chance to be alone with Holmes, for she can see that the two of us tend to wilt when we are away from each other and the thrill of the chase for too long. Her perceptiveness does bring a smile to my face, for I can sense that she really is correct in his instance.

She has asked me to speak her case to Mrs. Hudson, railing against the boredom that comes when she has nothing to occupy her mind. I can only imagine the frightening power of our landlady when she is on a mission to protect anyone, so I have assured her that I will do what I can to speak to Mrs. Hudson and find her something to do. I know that she will most prefer being able to do something that will be of use to someone else. She misses being at the practice as much as I do…

In any case, Holmes' seemingly content mood has kept him from the syringe for a few days now, a fact that makes me very relieved indeed. I trust that he knows exactly why I dislike the filthy habit, but I fear that the addiction catches hold of him when he has nothing else to focus on. It is truly only natural, I suppose, but that does not change the fact that it makes me fear for the health of my good friend. Any excuse for him to leave the drugs in the drawer and go out to work… I'd much rather he continue to smoke like an ever-loving chimney than inject himself again. Somewhat unfortunately, he seems to have taken me at my word so far as the pipe is concerned.

I have begun the writing up of the Deramore affair, trusting that it will be something of interest to those readers who have so seemed to enjoy our escapades in the past. Whether or not I will choose to share this particular case remains uncertain; there are unanswered questions and loose ends, so far as Lacey's story is concerned. I do wonder where I will take such an affair… but I have no doubt that Holmes will be able to present me with a satisfactory conclusion so that we may call this case sewn up, so to speak.

What a strange past few weeks we have endured. I count ourselves lucky in the ways that we have survived. I look forward to regaining my strength and continuing life as normal with my wife. But, as is said, when one door closes, another door opens. We have not heard the last of this, I wonder.

But when he looks in the direction of the drawer that I know contains his supplies, I cannot help but feel trepidation in the pit of my stomach. Some part of me cannot trust him. I've seen him in far too dark a place.

 


	20. Frayed Nerves

_**From the personal diary of Mr. Ken Higgins. Entry dated 5 July 1896.** _

Don't know how I was supposed to react to there being a dead woman on the hearth when I got back last night. Missus was nowhere around, and our washing girl'd already gone home like she does normally. Everything all usual apart from the dead body. All I knew was that it was going to be just awful for me to have to deal with.

She hadn't been any trouble before… didn't even know how she died. All I saw was her lying in front of the hearth like she was trying to get warm. No blood, no burns, no nothing. Strangest thing.

Once I managed to find the missus, she told me to fetch the police and maybe a doctor so that we could find out what was going on. I don't think it's a good idea to make a fuss about all this since she's already dead and it can't be helped, but that was the only thing that we could do. Missus made me go off and do it, so what could I do?

Police took the body and told us to find a way of getting in touch with her family so that they'd know what had happened. I wonder if they'll actually care, but since it was the same man who left the girl with us in the first place, I figured that he knew what he was talking about. Would have preferred getting a tip for my trouble, but he was nice enough to give me enough money for the telegram. All balances out in the end, I suppose.

Anyway, I haven't heard anything from the family, but that didn't surprise me or the missus. Just made us very sad since she did seem like a nice girl, even if she was a little mad. But I think I might be mad too if my family was as terrible as that. Poor thing.

Damn shameful to have a death in the house though, and the neighbors think so too. Don't know what we're going to be able to do here. Missus is so flustered all the time. Girl drop dead on her watch when she was supposed to be watching her? Never a good thing. Don't know why she cares so much about what they think though. Wasn't our fault. My mum always used to say what's happened has happened and can't be mended. Amen.

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 5 July 1896.** _

It is very difficult for me to accept the death of Lacey Deramore, and so soon after her leaving Baker Street. We had hoped that this safe house would be enough for her to live out her days until she recovered, but I can see that we were greatly mistaken.

The official autopsy report says that she died of cyanide poisoning, presumably from the bitter almond oil found near her person at the time of death. They're wanting to rule this as suicide or at least accidental death, due to the fact that we all knew that her mind was extremely unstable. They say there's nothing for it, that she somehow swallowed enough to kill herself, and it was all because the part of her that wasn't mad was so ashamed of what she had become.

But I don't know if that's something that I can agree with. Of course cyanide poisoning is something I'll accept, since I don't see any reason not to. But suicide?

Certainly, it would make sense, based on what I know of this woman, that she would kill herself. But was she really self-aware enough to be able to understand what was happening inside of her? When I brought the news to Mr. Holmes, he didn't seem to believe in suicide as the cause of death either. So I feel my suspicions are justified.

Still, if we feel that we can rule out suicide and accidental death, where do we stand? Who do we accuse? The family she stayed with? Maybe, but somehow, they don't seem the homicidal type. Not to mention, they're so flighty that premeditated murder seems rather unlikely, pardon me for saying so. The doctor suggested that Colonel Moran might have something to do with it. I suppose it's possible, though I can't see what good he'd think killing a woman who has very little to do with anything anymore would possibly do. It is not as though Holmes is particularly sentimental about her.

His reaction to her death did surprise me though. I forget sometimes, in my cynicism, that he does have emotions and feelings. In any case, his reaction is much as though he feels that he has failed the poor woman. Well, I think that we've all failed her. But perhaps she is in a better place, if she truly felt as though she had no one left in the world who loved her.

The chief inspector seems somewhat less than enthusiastic about the idea of launching a full-scale investigation of the woman's death. He'd much rather it be signed, sealed, and put away. While I understand that, I don't think that is the right way about it. Lacey deserves better than that, after everything that she's been through.

It simply means that we are going to have to take matters into our own hands and see what we can do on our own. I have every bit of faith that Holmes will be able to sort this matter out. And hopefully soon, before I am put on another case and am made unable to work on this one.

And now I have the unhappy task of informing the morgue that the family does not appear to want anything to do with the body of their dead sister.

* * *

_**The following is from the personal diary of Mrs. Martha Hudson. Entry dated 6 July 1896** _

Dreadful news of the poor young woman who stayed with us. She has died.

It makes my heart ache to think of her, dying so horribly like that. After everything the poor darling has been through, it is simply not right. Inspector Lestrade says that they think it was suicide, but there was something in his voice that makes me think he is lying to spare my feelings.

It's wrong of him to lie, and it's wrong of Mr. Holmes and the doctor not to tell me what is really happening. The inspector came a few hours ago, and Mary has been lying down, so that I cannot ask her to ask her husband what has happened. I so need to know what is going on. I would never have let that girl leave if I'd known what was going to happen to her. I'd assumed that Mr. Holmes and the inspector knew what they were doing when they let the girl stay with that family. How could they have been so wrong?

* * *

_**The following is a telegram sent by Mr. August Deramore on the 6 of July 1896.** _

_Inspector G. Lestrade_

_Care Scotland Yard, London_

_Sir, message received understood. Travel to London currently unfeasible. Respect your judgment for funeral arrangements._

_Deramore_

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Colonel Sebastian Moran. Entry dated 6 July 1896.** _

While the young man who completed my delivery performed his task with excellence, I now find that I should have chosen another man. If I had known who he was, and why he was of significance to Holmes, I would never have selected him. But it is too late for that now.

I cannot trust him for anything any longer; he must be silenced.

From now on, I must perform my own hunt, as it has become apparent to me that none can be trusted for a job such as this. I am extremely displeased with my servant whom I asked to dispatch the young man and his family; a third of the job is not the entire job that I required. His failure results in my having to take my focus away from Holmes, as I must perform this task myself. I will have to take this into my own hands. But I dislike the idea of this causing my work to suffer…

I have decided that first I will perform the next step against Holmes. The wheels have been set in motion, and therefore cannot be stopped, and I would not have it any other way. I am ready for the hunt.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Mrs. Mary Watson. Entry dated 6 July 1896.** _

There is far too much ill news for the frayed nerves of Baker Street to be able to handle at this point in time, I fear.

All I can do now is sit at home and wait for John to send word from the hospital, for he told me that he did not want me to risk our child by being at his side. Mrs. Hudson became so hysterical at the time of the departure that John had to sedate her in order to prevent her from harming herself. I worry very much about her, for she has been in a very delicate state since the arrival of the news of the murder of the young girl, but the hospitalization of one of her tenants seems to have proven too much for her to handle.

So it is now that I sit by her bedside, trying to give her as much company as I can, as I wait and reflect on the goings on of the past few hours.

Mr. Holmes and John were greatly disturbed at the news of the death. I've been told that Inspector Lestrade himself brought them the news with the intention of reopening the case even though the coroner has determined everything solved. I understand that they all agreed, and planned to perform a great deal of work on the case as soon as possible to avenge the dead girl.

But it was only after the inspector had departed that something became terribly wrong. I awoke to hear John bellowing down the stairs for someone to bring him his medical bag, and his voice told me that I must not delay. All I could do was just run to him.

And the sight that met my eyes was one that I shall never be able to scour from my mind.

I saw Mr. Holmes half-lying on the floor, his arms caught up about his head as they grasped at his chair. His eyes were screwed shut as though in enormous pain, and he cried out again and again as his muscles appeared to spasm without his control. He was so very vulnerable that tears sprang into my eyes as I could only stare.

John had grabbed his bag as soon as I'd appeared in the doorway, and he knelt down next to his companion, trying to take his pulse and assess the situation. He looked at me grimly as Mr. Holmes suddenly became still, and I felt my breath catch in my throat.

The next thing that I knew, young Davey Wiggins and another of the big boys from his band were carrying Mr. Holmes out into the street to load him into the hansom, for John had felt things that serious. They would off to the hospital and tell us what happened as soon as they knew. With Mrs. Hudson's state, John left me with a sedative for her, and instructed Davey and his boys to stay in Baker Street and keep an eye on everything.

And now all we can do is wait. We know nothing at all. Mr. Holmes could be dead for all we know. And the thought of that is enough to let me keep on; I must be here for John when he returns. I must be strong for him.

I can see that Mrs. Hudson is beginning to stir once more, so I must off to help her. She looks as though she is in need of a good cup of tea.

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 5 July 1896.** _

I would have liked to think that nothing could have gotten worse after we saw that the girl was dead. But I was apparently very, very wrong.

I am waiting outside his hospital room, and Dr. Watson was given permission to attend inside the room as the other doctors make their assessment. Well, I say that he was given permission, but the truth of the matter is that he refused point blank to remain outside here with me. And I couldn't really blame him. It's no more in a doctor's blood to be able to sit out when a friend is in need than it is in an inspector's blood to let a guilty man go off free.

But I cannot deny that I would have appreciated the company…

Mrs. Watson contacted me at home to tell me what had happened, and it was obvious that the situation was very serious. Particularly when she mentioned just how shattered Mrs. Hudson had become, and so I knew that I must hurry to see what had happened, since Dr. Watson appears to have suspected foul play. Granted, we may not be able to take his suspicious seriously yet, since he could very well be in shock. I must say that I am feeling the effects of such a condition.

I suppose that I should not be as astonished as I am that this has happened; there has been something in the air for a long time now, ever since the Deramore case. And when one considers the threats that have been recently made against his person, everything truly falls into place. But it does not mean that I am not very, very worried…

Part of the plan now that we knew what Moran was planning was that we would be able to head him off before he was able to meet his goal. It's become painfully obvious that we very well might have failed before we even began.

 


	21. Breaking a Solemn Oath

_I do not know what's going on. I cannot see… everything is black, everything is pain…_

_There's nothing._

_Why can I not feel?_

_Darkness…._

_**Letter composed to Mr. M. Holmes on the 7** _ _**th** _ _**of July 1896.** _

Dear Sir,

It falls upon me as my solemn duty to inform you that your brother, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, has fallen under attack that has left him greatly incapacitated.

I do very much wish that I could say the attack was merely physical, a result of a chance meeting on the street with the enemy of one of his clients; I wish it had been such an isolated incident. Perhaps then, I would have been able to write this with a hand not quite as heavy as it is at this time.

I hardly need remind you of your brother's forced absence at the time of his final encounter with Professor Moriarty, and yet it is something that must be mentioned here. The arrest of Colonel Sebastian Moran, which led to the official return of Mr. Sherlock Holmes to Baker Street, appears to have gone amiss. Alas, he, the colonel, is the subject of my story.

His recent reappearance in London culminated in a threat of bodily harm to your brother, a fear that was reported to Scotland Yard, but was dismissed by your brother himself. At the time, those of us in close proximity around him were willing to trust his judgment, albeit in a very worried manner. Your brother can be very forceful when he is in the middle of a case, but I fear that his manner of thinking when his mind is not occupied is far more difficult and dangerous.

And now I fear that we have all made a dreadful error of judgment in ignoring the threats, for the colonel is a man very determined in his mission. I shudder to think what more he is capable of, as your brother now lies unconscious at the royal hospital.

It is against his will that I write to you now, for his few periods of wakefulness have been very adamant regarding the fact that he did not wish for you to be brought into this matter. I do not know his reasoning, only that I am breaking my solemn oath by telling you this. It is for that reason that I must beg your pardon that I cannot reveal myself outwardly in this letter, though I am certain you will be able to identify me regardless.

I beg of you to come to his side, Mr. Holmes. Time is very much of the essence, and he is so very weak.

_I fear, and tis not a feeling I can reconcile with._

_I fear that my mind will truly come to pass…_

_I cannot feel, I cannot see… I cannot understand._


	22. is falling down, my fair lady

_**From the personal diary of Dr. John H. Watson. Entry dated 9 July 1896.** _

I find a wicked sense of humour has been brought to Baker Street once more.

It was my wish that no more of the foul substance be brought to the flat. Holmes understood this. Even with his lethargy as it was, he swore to me that he understood. And I, his friend and companion, had been at least somewhat willing to believe that he would respect my will and keep the preparation out of this flat.

And what am I to believe now? He is not lucid that I may ask him. His unconsciousness can at least be marked down to sheer exhaustion when one considers what has happened over the past few days. I spoke to his brother, who came at the request of an unknown hand, and he looked as grim as any of us.

If we are to believe that Holmes was intelligent enough to refrain from cocaine (though I would not put it past him to indulge the habit with a dose or two of morphine, another of his wretched habits), it frightens me to consider some kind of alternative.

I've requested that he be removed from hospital and taken back to Baker Street, as I do not believe that is the environment that he will be able to recover in. If my theory is correct, it would leave him all the more vulnerable, truthfully. Now, he remains in the flat with Mary and Mrs. Hudson governing him like a pair of wolves, and I feel anyone who tried to get past our womenfolk would surely be taking their lives in their hands.

But I must properly explain what has given me pause regarding my dear friend's incapacitation, though I continue to fervently pray that I am wrong.

I found myself sitting at my old desk evening last; I had just finished putting Holmes to bed after his arrival in Baker Street, and had found myself completely overcome with weariness. My desk was as solid a place as any to find respite, and it was quite out of habit that my hand fell to the drawer of paper and ink. I daresay that I should not have found the crumpled up papers that I did, for they must have been burned long ago, at the request of Holmes himself. He did not want this case to be made public, though scraps of it can be seen in the papers of the day.

Mentions of a poisoning that happened long ago, mentions from a case that we would rather have forgotten were found on those papers. But it was my own professional notes, ones made for my own benefit rather than that of any reader, that intrigued me. I shall transcribe them here, so that I may recall them for posterity; the original papers have been burned.

_Overdose of cocaine, mixed with venom of a snake undoubtedly from the East._

_Sebastian Moran_

Lest I be interrupted by my patient, I must be brief as I try to understand what had happened. I will recall any notes I might still have of the case, for my memory is faint. I can remember Moran and the house across the way. I can remember a sickening replaying of the night the colonel was captured, the night my friend returned.

Any and all help will be needed today. I have not the time to think of anything else.

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 9 July 1896.** _

I'm not certain that I can truly approve of the doctor's decision to bring Holmes back to the flat. So soon after the poisoning incident, it seems like a ridiculous thing to do. And I told him as much; not only is Holmes suffering from the overdose, but the doctor himself wasn't ill that long ago. Will he even able to keep up with something like this? I don't really know, but I'm starting to think it doubtful.

At this point, though, I do not think that it is time for me to step in and make any kind of decision. Dr. Watson is determined for it to be this way, and it would cause more stress on his health to tell him otherwise than to let him tire himself out. If I must, I can depend on the influence of his wife to make sure that he sees sense. And since Mr. Mycroft Holmes is not staying at the flat, I hope that my fears will remain without validation.

I know that Mr. Holmes took far too much cocaine, so said the official diagnosis, and I find that I'm surprised at that. But when I hear about what's really going on at the flat, I do wonder if it's something that I should have been able to see coming. Something that  _he_  should have been able to see coming, rather.

Annie remains at home, at my insistence. The atmosphere at Baker Street is not something that I want her and the children to have to experience, and I think that I will have to be the one making the decision to keep them away.

Mrs. Hudson does not look very well, I think. She is working too hard, and I worry about her and Mrs. Watson, who grows steadily more weary in a manner that makes me uneasy. It is her I worry most for when I sit at Baker Street.

I find that I cannot stay here, and yet I cannot bring myself to leave. Such is the feeling of dread that overcomes all of us. I dislike this. I worry greatly about my friends. I feel that they are headed for something ghastly, and I feel powerless to stop it. The only one who appears to have any influence over anyone in this house is Mr. Mycroft Holmes himself, and he spends the most time at his brother's bedside. It is only natural that he would be doing something like that, but I find that I want him to stretch his influence over the rest of the house. Perhaps it would stop everyone from total destruction otherwise… or perhaps I'm simply leaning too far in the wrong direction.

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Mrs. Mary Watson. Entry dated 6 July 1896.** _

I sit at the bedside of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and I watch his sleep, if one can call it such. One might call the dreams that I know he experiences feverish, but for the fact that he is as cold as ice and strangely conscious, like some of the victims I recall treating at my husband's side. Even when he is awake enough to speak, his mind is covered in delusional thoughts that make it impossible for me to detect the real man underneath. If he reaches out in a fit and I grab his hand, I can feel the pumping of the blood beneath his skin, going faster and faster and it's enough to force me to unclasp my fist and let his hand drop to the bed until the fit is past.

Sometimes Mr. Mycroft Holmes appears at my side, and allows me to take a respite, for the labour of love that I undergo for my husband and his dear brother is something that drains the life from my soul.

I cannot bear to see him like this. And yet I do so. Why?

To watch Mr. Mycroft at his brother's side… to see him obviously sharing in the dreams of his brother, as he is powerless as the rest of us to do a thing about it…

Mr. Mycroft is a man that I had only known of once before this near tragedy occurred. I recall him coming to our home with his brother last Christmas, presumably at his brother's insistence, for he did not seem to enjoy himself. I found it astonishing that he was able to remain so calm as he so kindly made conversation with the rest of us; it did not take the world's greatest detective to see that he was still very uncomfortable with the whole situation, bless his heart.

As I understand it, the brothers see each other a great deal more seldom than I might have thought. There is no estrangement that I am aware of, but they simply have not spoken in quite some time. I do not believe that I know why he came, or indeed how he knew to come, but I am very glad for his presence. Perhaps it will be enough to revive his brother, so that we may be able to understand some of this.

John says that he believes Mr. Holmes was poisoned. I might be surprised at his fervent trust that Mr. Holmes did not simply take cocaine behind his back, but believes that he respected my husband's wishes and did not take any of the stuff. To see the faith that they have in each other is something incredible to behold, truly.

John has come now, and desires, at last, to give Mr. Holmes a draught so that his sleep may be less troubled. I believe that he should have given such a draught before now, but it's something that he was afraid to give, knowing that morphine was something that could severely rebound and cause more harm than good.

But if it lets the man before me have a few hours of rest, perhaps it will be enough.

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 9 July 1896.** _

Gone is the time that I had to meditate on the goings on at 221B. My little book must now be closed, for my officer has come to send me news.

The Tower of London is burning.

* * *

**Fragments of a report written on the Fire at the Tower of London. Dated 9 and 10 July 1896.**

It is the refortification of the tower that has caused things to detonate in such a terrible fashion. Artillery and gunpowder kept in the bowels exploded, causing fire to be set to the ground floor of the Tower. The fire has only surfaced to the top since that point.

We understand that the gunpowder should not have been down there at all, and we understand it vital that we look into why it was there at all. The source of the fire, however, can only be guessed at, for we have no visual proof that the gunpowder even existed in the first place. All that we can do is assume that the eyewitnesses who proclaimed that they heard the bang of a gun can be trusted.

It has been told to us the passersby heard a great shot and a small shot, culminating in the explosion of the stones below their feet. Indeed, many of the cobblestones have been either destroyed or damaged in an area that stretches a bit less than three quarters of a metre in every direction around the sight of what we assume was the blast.

The fire continues to burn higher into the Tower, and we worry that we will not be able to contain it. Right now, the citizens do not appear to be in danger, for we have removed them from the area. But there is no telling if there is more gunpowder to detonate or if, indeed, this is not just an isolated incident. We are choosing to assume this was an accident, until we are given any further proof that it was anything else.

...

The fire rages. All one can hear is the crackling of flames and what I think are the sounds of laughter. A sick man.

* * *

_**From the private diary of Annie Lestrade. Entry dated 22 June 1896.** _

What are these times that we must keep our children tied so closely to our strings, tied so that they cannot escape the house without our knowing. My little ones do not understand the fear in the streets, nor do I wish them to.

What, could the police truly think that the fire at the Tower was caused accidentally? After all of the incidents that have happened in this city, I cannot think this is the case. Surely, they must see that a fire like this is not without possibility when one is dealing with a madman? To think of Mr. Holmes possibly dying in his bed, of that Deramore girl cold in the grave, of our poor inspector fighting for his own life. There is evil in the streets that does not sleep, and I fear that this man, whoever he is, this creature… Can I think that he has not chosen his victims with skill and impeccable reasoning?

The only men in London who can stop him has been efficiently taken out of the equation, and I fear that my husband shall undoubtedly be next.

I fear for my children, but I fear all the more for my husband. Is it possible that he could win? How can one defeat an enemy that we do not understand? What is his goal? What will happen to us?

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Mrs. Mary Watson. Entry dated 6 July 1896.** _

John has gone to the fire with Inspector Lestrade. He has gone, and he did not tell me that he was going. He knew that I would never have let him go. He simply left. I do not know what to do, what will become of this. I cannot bear this.

Mrs. Hudson is speaking closely to me, and begs that I hear…

"We must hurry."

 


	23. Quite Contrary

_Mistress Mary, quite contrary_

_How does your garden grow?_

_With silver bells and cockle shells,_

_And pretty maids all in a row._

* * *

_**From the personal diary of Mrs. Mary Watson. Entry dated 6 July 1896.** _

Despite the best efforts of the police, the grounds surrounding the Tower were fast becoming choked with panicked people; we soon learned that a second explosion had occurred shortly before our arrival, drawing more people towards the sound and the smoke. The air was gagged with dust and rubble, the streets peppered with the Lord only knew what.

The cries of the people sounded hollow and foreign to my ears over the sensation of absolute silence that had followed the blow. Pounding footsteps were as a heartbeat, a ticking clock…

I kept Mrs. Hudson close to me as we ran through the crowd, searching desperately for John; in reality, it was nearly impossible to identify anyone in the mob, but what else were we to do? And yet, as we searched, I could not shake a sense of anxiety in my stomach, though the source of it was unclear to me. It was not fear that we would fail in our mission, it was a warning for what was about to come.

The third explosion appeared so drawn out in horror before my eyes, yet my understanding for what had happened shot into my mind at a moment's notice; the detonation was unexpected by those around me. I dreaded to think…

We fell to the ground in shock and from the force of the blast, unable to breathe for the white smoke that filled the air. The scent of gunpowder filled my consciousness, recalling to memory John's pistol kept safe in his drawer by the bed… my vision gone black, my hand pulled away from Mrs. Hudson's…

By the time the air had cleared enough for me to move, I was left shaking, one hand clutched unconsciously at my middle. Mrs. Hudson had vanished from my side, and there was so much screaming in the air around me. It was unbearable.

John's calling of my name sent a flood of tears down my cheeks, and I frantically wiped the red away from my vision as I whipped my head around. He lay on the ground near to me, struggling to his feet as his cane trembled in his hands.

"Mary, what are you doing here?"

I pulled him to his feet, my movements too quick as I was overcome by dizziness and nearly fell to the ground once more. The screaming drowned out any other speech that I could have made, and we hurried towards the shelter of a building in our panic. It was only then my mind registered the fact Mrs. Hudson had disappeared.

John put a hand to my cheek and his lips found mine as we leaned against the steadiness of the wall. "Stay here, my love."

And with that, he was gone, back into the crowd.

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 10 July 1896.** _

By the time of the third explosion, we had come to the source of the gunpowder. Two young men dressed as students had set off the blasts with a torch, and I could only imagine them running like hell to get themselves out of that situation. It was suicide.

Once we had taken them into our custody, the blasts stopped and the people inexplicitly began to disperse. As the area emptied, we saw people with superficial wounds, but it was astonishing to see the lack of severe injuries, let alone the lack of death. It didn't make sense, particularly after the third blast appeared to have happened right on top of us.

People should have died. Many people.

But they did not.

Lest I sound overly optimistic at a time like this, I must report that we did find one body in amongst the debris. One of the constables ran up to me to inform me of it, and our hearts were heavy as we recognized the significance of what had just been happening.

It does not take Sherlock Holmes to understand that we had just been tricked.

* * *

_**From the private diary of Annie Lestrade. Entry dated 10 July 1896.** _

We stood in the doorway of 221B for a long time after word of multiple explosions had reached our ears. The children I commanded to stay upstairs, to stay hidden and under cover. I did not know what would happen next, but I knew that we must remain here, for Geoff had insisted.

Mr. Holmes lay in his room, and it was not long before Jemmy called down to me to say that the gentleman had awakened. I was forced to lock the front door tightly and hurry up the stairs to see him, for I knew he had been very ill as of late.

He appeared very much awake when I entered the room, and I did not know what to make of his condition. He attempted to sit up as I entered, dressed in a stained nightshirt. His eyes had gone wild, and he held Sadie's hand clasped in his own. My heart wrenched to see my little girl with a wet rag in her hand as she gently nursed his brow and murmured to him.

"Watson!" he cried aloud, as I rushed to his side to help Sadie keep him abed. "Where is Watson?"

"He's not here, Mr. Holmes," Sadie said softly, still struggling. "Don't you worry, he'll be back soon."

"He cannot be there!" The look in his eyes betrayed the dream, and I bit my lip as we soothed him down.

"The doctor will be just fine," I whispered. "Please, rest. You need your strength."

He shook his head, and I thought for a moment I saw tears in his eyes. "He's gone to his death! You must stop him!"

The doctor had kept a sedative by the bedside in his bag, and my time spent as a nurse in my youth allowed me to gently send him back to sleep. Sadie, overcome with the experience, fell into my arms and Jemmy spoke softly in my ear, "Mother, where's Father?"

All we could do was sit and wait.

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 10 July 1896.** _

Mrs. Watson could be found once we had finished our sweep of the area, and she looked extremely distraught, asking me if I had seen the doctor. When I was forced to admit that I had not, I regretted the words instantly, for I knew the weight of them. She informed me also that she had come to the scene with Mr. Holmes' landlady, and we understood that she was missing as well.

I could have chided her for coming to the scene, for neither woman was going to be able to defend themselves in such a situation as this, but I did not see the point anymore. The damage was done, and the bleeding wound on her head had made her physically unstable, so that we were forced to sit her down. She refused to allow anyone to clean it, insisting that her husband was the only man she wanted. We did not know what else to do, but I understood the necessity to find both of them and we spread out immediately to find them.

We searched for many hours, but did not find our quarry. Mrs. Watson insisted that she remain at the scene for the entirety of the search, and it was not worth the resources needed to remove her. When we were forced to come up dry, I opted to return her to Baker Street myself, for I knew she would not go with anyone else.

The ride in the hansom back to the flat was silent, for even her tears were not accompanied by sobs. I knew my wife remained at the flat, and could only hope that she'd be able to deal with this situation better than I.

In any case, I felt it my duty to console her, as much as I did not know what I was doing. "We will find them, Mrs. Watson," I said to her, and I did truly believe that. "In the chaos that followed, they were most likely swept away. Why, I would not be surprised if they were returned to Baker Street by the time we arrive."

I was not quite sure how much I believed myself at that point, but I felt the need to say it in any case. I do not know Mrs. Watson very well; I've only been acquainted with her a few times at Christmas, for she is always with the doctor. Yet, her husband is a man that I respect greatly, and not merely because he has chosen to stay with Mr. Holmes as long as he has. In his absence, I wished to give her some comfort, yet words were failing me as she looked at me with such grief in her eyes that I feared she had already accepted them both for dead.

"Thank you, Inspector. I hope you are as certain as you sound."

* * *

_**From the private diary of Annie Lestrade. Entry dated 10 July 1896.** _

When Geoff returned to Baker Street, I could not contain myself and held him close as I began to sob. I had not realized how crushing the worry had been on my soul, to see him alive and well. He held me for a long moment, stroking my hair and I saw tears in his eyes as well when he pulled away and touched my face.

"Annie, I need your help."

I looked behind him to see Mary Watson climbing out of the hansom, and the blood covering her face brought my mind back to the present moment and I pushed past my husband to draw her close and help her into the house. As I walked by him, he put a hand on my shoulder and whispered to me, "The doctor and Mrs. Hudson have disappeared. I'm going back to find them."

And at that moment, I knew all we could do was nod at each other and I watched him leave…

But I knew that we needed to clean Mary's wound and get her calm again, for it looked as though she'd been in this condition for a long while.

Sadie and Jemmy had stood in the doorway, even though I had told them to stay upstairs when we did not know who was coming to the door. I expect they'd heard their father's voice and had been curious, and I could not blame them for that. But I worried about them seeing the bloody condition of Mary Wtason. I needn't have, though, after seeing the way that Sadie had stepped up to nursing the delirious Mr. Holmes.

We took her to the kitchen and the kettle was put on instantly. Her wound was cleaned, and we were able to pour a cup of tea quickly in order to soothe her. After we had done that far, Sadie pulled at my skirt to inform me that she was going back upstairs to stay with Mr. Holmes. The darling girl vanished after I nodded, and Jemmy scarpered after her, apparently more comfortable with his sister than with the two of us remaining in the kitchen.

After Mary had calmed down enough to speak, she informed me what had happened with the doctor and Mrs. Hudson. I was very worried for her, but we both worried more for the two who were gone. All we could do was wait. Again.

Wait is the word of the day, I fear.

* * *

_**From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 10 July 1896.** _

We had been very careful to ensure that Mrs. Watson was not aware of the body we had found by the Tower; while we knew it was neither the doctor nor Mrs. Hudson, we were also quite afeared of the potential reaction in her state of worry.

But closer examination of the body proved that it appeared to be simply an innocent bystander, one who had been attracted to the sound of the attraction and was apparently trampled underfoot during the chaos. We have sent the body to the mortuary for identification later on.

Now that the area has calmed down, we saw that the explosion created a hole, nearly 2 metres across that stretched nearly to the top of the wall. We knew that the first detonation barely created any damage, presumably because of a faulty gunpowder path. The second and third blasts were enough to create the hole that now exists, which is more than large enough to allow a man to walk freely inside.

We do not know what their goal was inside; as far as we know, there is very little inside that they would wish to rob. I have not had the time to sit down and consider further possibilities, but I anticipate Mr. Holmes will have his own way of looking at the situation once he recovers from his illness. Perhaps such a mental puzzle will allow him to recover more quickly. I did not ask Annie how he fared when I returned to Baker Street, but I can only hope that it's not as serious as we'd feared…

I feel incredibly selfish when I say, I hope he recovers quickly in order to help us with this singular problem.

 


	24. Have Mercy on Us All

**_From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 11 July 1896._ **

Nearly twenty-four hours have passed since the events at the tower. I've had men searching all over London, but we have seen no sign of the good doctor or his landlady. It is as though they were simply swallowed up by the crowd, never to be seen again.

Holmes has remained extremely ill and feverish, Annie and Sadie doing everything they can for him. They insisted we not tell him what happened to his friend, but I disagreed. We need all the help we can get if we are to find them, and therefore, Holmes should be informed so that he can get in on the chase. He was lucid enough to understand what I was telling him when I entered his room this afternoon, and that was very much a mercy.

He listened carefully as I told the tale, making sure to mention the two miscreants we took into custody yesterday, not wanting to leave anything out that could lead him to the solution. In retrospect, it was a mistake to leave the fact that his friends were missing until the end of my tale, for he was quite despondent to realize what had actually happened. Annie was called in to help calm him, for the fever has caused his inhibitions to be lowered, before we could continue.

Once he was calmer, he was able to consider what I'd told him. I think he knew more about the events at the Tower than any of the rest of us, simply from my tale, but he expressed a desire to go and see the scene for himself. I knew that Annie would never approve of such an outing, but to my surprise, she reluctantly agreed.

Perhaps I shouldn't be so surprised though.

We've both seen how distraught Mary Watson has been. She does try to hide it, but the worry on her face is there for all to see. And I understand that Annie has been very concerned for her health, for she has not eaten since she returned to Baker Street evening last.

I write this now as Annie helps Holmes prepare to go out. The women will remain here in Baker Street, in case either missing party happens to return while we are gone. I can only hope it will be that simple. Something tells me, however, that will not be the case.

* * *

**_From the private records of Colonel Sebastian L. Moran. Entry dated 8 July 1896. Found in a desk drawer late in the December 1896._ **

My dear colonel,

I trust that you have done as I instructed and managed to procure a cold corpse for the next part of our plan. I am very pleased by this fact, and I hope that you will bear with me as I instruct you how to use it. This plan, by necessity, would likely frighten off those without a stomach. I trust you will not be among them.

Of course, you do remember the vanity that I asked you to purchase many weeks ago before you were able to receive the first letter in this series. Now is the time that it will be put to use, along with the body that you have managed to procure.

Ah, but I have been looking forward to this. I think that you too will be able to look forward to the reaction of Sherlock Holmes when a certain delivery is made to 221B Baker Street.

Procure a butcher's knife from your landlady. If the knife is discovered in connection with this little  _fait_ , it will have belonged to her and you will have no fear of it being traced back to you.

Sever the hand of the dead body and deliver it to Mr. Sherlock Holmes as soon as possible so that it will not be too terribly decayed by the time the detective takes delivery of the vanity. In addition, remove a kidney and the liver before discarding the rest of the body. At this time, I shall leave the disposal of the body entirely up to you; please do as you see fit.

Mr. Holmes is currently in a state of agitation, as you are no doubt aware. This is our final stage in persecution against him before the events of the Tower are spoken of in connection of his name. Never fear, good sir, for we are beginning to take our place at the birth of the end.

The time for you to formulate the end of our plan is nearly upon us. I have made all the preparations possible, and I realize that I must now hand a certain percentage of the reins to you. I trust that you will take that responsibility well, and that you will succeed in our mutual goal.

Failure is not an option.

Await my next, final letter. The time is soon.

I remain, Colonel, ever faithfully yours,

Professor James Moriarty.

* * *

**_From the private diary of Annie Lestrade. Entry dated 11 July 1896._ **

Our lives have been turned upside down by the events of the last month or so. I pine for the days we could simply live in peace in our own home. While I am glad for the chance to stay safely in Baker Street, I look forward to a conclusion to this business so that we can all go back to our own homes and try to resume a sense of normalcy in our lives.

As it is, my children and I have been trying to help the ill in Baker Street to the best of our abilities. And it appears we are very much needed.

It worries me to watch Mary Watson fading at the upstairs window. Jemmy's taken it upon himself to sit with her. He tried to distract her in the beginning, but she was hardly able to acknowledge his presence, so he sits at her feet as she stares out the window, playing with his toy train. I've tried to coax her into eating something, but all she does is look sadly at me.

I fear that she's given up on him already.

Mr. Holmes and Geoff have gone off to see what they can discover, and while I worry about Mr. Holmes leaving the house in his condition, I understand that there are simply no other options. We must assume that injury at the very least is a factor in this disappearance; therefore we must find them as soon as we can. If only for the sake of those of us left behind.

I certainly hope that Mr. Holmes will not return to the flat completely shattered, though I'm not sure how realistic an idea that is. Sadie's been enjoying the chance to play nurse (if, indeed, "play" is really the word), but I don't like seeing her put into this kind of position. She's just a child. Murder is something that takes the childishness away from all of us.

But in the meantime, all any of us can do is wait.

* * *

**_From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 11 July 1896._ **

Holmes and I arrived at the rubble of the tower when the light was nearly at the top of the buildings, so that the light was limitedly beginning to disappear. Not a soul was in sight, and even the tower itself appeared shut off and alone. It was so uncomfortable a situation that I was quite unable to concentrate, and was glad that Holmes didn't seem to be affected.

He looked so pale and wan as I helped him out of our hansom, and he leaned heavily on his cane and on my right arm. But beneath the weakness, I could sense his determination and the way that his keen mind was beginning to sift through the evidence that was immediately visible. I recognized the fact that he was not going to be able to move around on his own, so I whispered to him that I'd help him anywhere he needed to go.

It was obvious that we needed a system if I was to assist him, but he was able to work around that quickly. He gripped my arm tightly and kept his cane in position so that he could limp smoothly, moving to the far edge of the scene that had been roped off. We traveled in a large, sweeping circle around the square, moving inward every time we completed a round. Holmes' eyes moved everywhere, and you could just see him drinking everything in and his mind worked so quickly and efficiently. It was quite a sight to behold.

"You said that you arrested two boys just after the third explosion?" he rasped after a number of turns.

"Yes, two boys who were down in the bottom of the wall. They were getting ready to set off another round of dynamite when we found them, but we were able to apprehend them before that happened."

"And this was before Watson vanished?"

I squinted, for both of us knew that the time was purely relative in this situation. "I cannot say for certain," I admitted, "but it's certain that they happened near about the same time. I don't think either of the boys were responsible for his vanishing, or for Mrs. Hudson vanishing."

He nodded, and just as he did, we came to the middle of our circle. He straightened up as best he could, taking another look around him. "Mary told me that Mrs. Hudson vanished from her side before she even managed to find Watson. I don't believe her disappearance was as premeditated as hers."

"As?" I asked.

He nodded. "You were here from the start?"

"As soon as I could arrive," I said, trying to shift my weight; Holmes is not a heavy man, but he is certainly taller than I. "About ten minutes before the second blast."

"And you didn't see Mary Watson until the end of the excitement?"

I shook my head. "I had no idea she'd come. Watson separated from me, and that was all I knew. I'd assumed he'd gone to help someone who was injured."

Holmes pursed his lips. "I see."

The rubble had at least stopped smoking by now, but we'd roped off the area so that bystanders couldn't traipse through; I wanted to be sure that Holmes would have a chance to look through everything before we allowed things to resume as normal. It's unclear when repairs will be able to start, so we're simply trying to make the best of the situation as it stands.

I'm not sure what all he was able to accomplish at the scene of the crime, but he seemed somewhat satisfied when he came to the end of his conclusions. He nodded to me, and said that he was ready to leave without any form of explanation and therefore, we made our way back to the hansom and he instructed the driver that he wished to return to Baker Street.

The ride went in silence for a block or two before I finally summoned the ability to ask him what he had discovered. He looked me straight in the eye and sighed.

"Their disappearance was planned," was all that he told me. "There is much for us to do."

And that is where the matter stands, the two of us returning to Baker Street to do whatever he sees fit. When we made our way back, after I'd helped him back to the sofa upstairs, he told me that all we were going to be able to do was wait.

Only now do I begin to wonder whether it was a good idea to bring him along, as he now looks even more feverish and ill. I hope that his mental faculties are with him as we speak, for I worry about leaving them alone for much longer.

* * *

**_From the personal diary of Mrs. Mary Watson. Entry dated 11 July 1896._ **

Mr. Holmes assures me that he made progress during his visit to the tower, but I do not see it. I pray he speaks truthfully, and does not try to simply placate my fears.

I wish to go out into the city to search for him. I must wait until the Lestrades are less vigilant.

I am so afraid.

* * *

**_From the private records of Inspector G. Lestrade. Entry dated 11 July 1896._ **

Dear God have mercy on us all.

I knew Holmes wished to wait for whatever it was he waited for (godforsaken sign), but a sign such as the one he received… none of us could have anticipated it.

A parcel came to Baker Street by way of one of the Irregular boys, and Annie took possession of it shortly after arrival. She brought it to Holmes, thinking that it might either cheer him up or prove important in the case. Whether it was important or not is open to interpretation, in my opinion.

He opened it, closed it again sharply, and, in a trembling voice, said, "Mrs. Lestrade, if you would be so kind as to take Mrs. Watson and the children to the kitchen and make her a cup of tea…"

Annie didn't question the issue, disappeared from the room with her charges in tow. Holmes turned to me with the box in his lap and I could see that his face had gone even more pale. "This isn't what it looks like," he said, but didn't sound quite convinced.

I took the box from him and set it on the table before opening it.

A severed, bloody hand lay in amongst a bed of shredded paper. Cupped around what appeared to be a human lung, it stared up at the two of us with dead judgment. A note lay crooked to the side, and read: "TIME"

I do not wish to jump to the wrong conclusion. But there is dread in my stomach, and my heart beats hurriedly in my chest.

Perhaps now we will have our answer.


	25. Details to Follow

_**From the personal diary of Mrs. Mary Watson. Entry dated 13 July 1896.** _

The rain fell heavily on Baker Street when I awoke this morning, and brought with it a feeling of gloom. It has been three days since the disappearance of my husband, and there comes a point when the silence is truly too much to bear. One looks out upon the grey, spattered cobblestones outside the window and the melancholy dread weighs upon the heart and does little to lift the spirits of those praying within.

Words. Words. Words

Two days have passed without further news. Mr. Holmes and Inspector Lestrade had done their bit by revisiting the scene, but I must confess I felt their actions inadequate. I'm led to believe that they also received a mysterious package shortly afterwards that could shed some light on the problem; they refuse to tell me what it contained.

Something has happened… I do not know.

It kills me.

My mind works over and over again, mulling over everything that I know over and over. I confess that I cannot think clearly any longer: my mind repeats this singular fact. There is nothing else to occupy my thoughts.

I cannot be placated by empty comforts …

Words.

My husband has vanished. He could be dead. He must be found.

I must know.

I can't… words are useless.

_**Notice appeared in numerous newspapers, published on 13 July 1896.** _

Anyone wishing to have knowledge of the whereabouts of a Dr. John H. Watson or Mrs. Henry M. Hudson, please contact the late Mr. James R. Toulson, formerly of Baker Street. Details to follow.

 


End file.
